Holding On (9 page)

‘Come down to Devon with me,' she said impulsively, as he returned carrying two glasses of chilled white wine, so cold that a mist had formed on the outside of the bowls. ‘We're having a family weekend. Everyone will be there. Why not? It'll be fun.'

He looked at her thoughtfully, wondering if this were a kind of answer, that this invitation might be a form of acceptance.

‘Won't I be in the way?' he asked. ‘If it's a family weekend . . .?' He hesitated, his heart knocking erratically with a new hope. If only he were brave enough to drop the mask of humour, to be as truly serious as he sometimes longed to be with her – but then supposing he frightened her right away? She was so elusive, so . . . so
unexpected
. ‘I do love you, Kit,' he said, ‘so very much.'

‘Oh, Jake,' she said, setting down her glass. ‘So do I. Love you, I mean. It's just . . . You know . . . Oh hell, I get so muddled . . .'

He put his own glass beside hers on the pretty, inlaid side table and put his arms round her, rocking her, comforting her. ‘I know,' he murmured, sighing. ‘I know exactly how it is. Never mind . . .'

 

Fliss lay awake, watching the cool early light spilling into the room. Once she was in bed, here on the top floor of the house in Above Town, all she could see was sky. This morning it was mother-ofpearl, sheeny soft, with the faintest tinge of oyster. From time to time the shadow of a gull's wing drifted past the window, the harsh, haunting cry, so evocative of the coast and seaside holidays, heralding the new day. Fliss drew her arm cautiously from beneath the sheet and peered at her wristwatch: only just after five. She sighed. It seemed as if she had been awake for hours. Lying still for another moment or two to check on the regularity of Miles's steady breathing, she slid carefully to the edge of the bed. She simply couldn't lie there another moment. Lifting her dressing gown from the chair by the window, she slipped noiselessly from the room and padded down the two flights of stairs to the kitchen.

From the kitchen window and from the room across the passage she could see the river, at its busiest at this time of the summer. Small boats rocked lightly at their moorings, their reflections shimmering, breaking and re-forming as the rising tide rippled under their bows and swung them round to point downstream. A cormorant flew with slow steady wingbeats, heading out to sea in the wake of a smack chugging out to the fishing grounds. Soon, across the river, the sun would roll up from behind the hill to fill the house with its warmth and brightness.

Taking her mug of coffee, Fliss crossed the passage and curled up in the hammock chair. She was still feeling heavy-hearted after the row she'd had with Miles the evening before. As she sipped reflectively at her coffee, Fliss decided that ‘row' wasn't the right word. One didn't row with Miles. He simply took a stand and stuck with it, formulating his answers carefully and merely repeating them with a kind of tolerant patience – the recollection of which, even some hours later, caused Fliss's fingers to clench on the handle of her mug. The infuriating thing was that though his reasoning was often perfectly rational, terribly sensible, there was, nevertheless, something in the patient reiteration of his views which infuriated her.

Fliss thought: Simply because I am fifteen years younger doesn't mean that I can never be right.

To begin with, this almost paternal approach had been rather nice. After the years of anxiety for her siblings, of being the eldest, there had been something comforting in being able to relax, in being the one who needed to be looked after and protected. It reminded her of being a little girl again, when her father was alive to order her existence and her big brother had been the one taking decisions for the children. The first two years of their marriage had been very happy. As Staff Operations Officer, Miles had been to sea for a few days once or twice, and away on courses, but generally he had driven each day to the dockyard at Devonport and, except when he was on duty, had returned each evening.

It had been such a novelty for Fliss to wake up with no classes to teach, no lessons to prepare, no timetables to consult. Though she might have found a position in one of the local schools, Miles had protested against such an idea. He didn't want her to work; he wanted her to be always available. He wouldn't always have shore jobs, he pointed out, and they must take full advantage of this opportunity. Once he had left for the dockyard the day was her own but, since he took the car, Fliss was obliged to find her way about by foot and other means of transport. Taking a picnic she'd go by ferry out to the castle, climbing behind Sugary Cove up to the cliffs, or she'd take one of the riverboats up to Totnes and meet Caroline in the town for a quick cup of coffee. Her time – between the hours of nine and four – was her own and she used it to explore the Devon countryside. It surprised her that Miles rarely went out of Dartmouth except on a fine Sunday when he might suggest a walk at Start Point or on Torcross beach. This was very pleasant, usually ending with a pub lunch somewhere, or a cream tea if they'd set out after lunch, but it had come as a shock to discover that he knew very little about the country. It was then that she realised how much she had taken in through the pores during her childhood at The Keep. Walks with Fox and the dogs on the hill, playing on the moors and beaches with Caroline, pottering about in the garden with grandmother – all these things had taught Fliss about the natural world.

‘Can you hear the wren?' she'd say, as they walked amongst the heather and the gorse, high on the cliffs above the sea. ‘Look, there she is. She's scolding us. She's probably got a nest somewhere close.' Miles would put an arm about her affectionately. ‘What a clever little girl it is,' he'd reply. ‘Haven't a clue, myself . . .' It hadn't really mattered but, after a while, Fliss began to realise that she preferred the walks which she took alone, listening, watching, immersing herself in the colour and sound of the countryside about her. Anyway, Miles was more of a townsman, more at home in the Vic with a pint on the bar than wandering on a cliff or strolling in a lane, and she had plenty of time for her own pursuits.

Fliss set down her empty mug on the glass coffee table and folded her arms beneath her breast, looking about her. This room was the cosiest in the house. It had been used as nothing much more than a hall when she'd moved in two years ago. Miles kept it as a place to pay tradesmen or to give a passing acquaintance a quick cup of coffee. His friends were taken upstairs to the drawing room, which had such a spectacular view of the river and out to sea. Fliss had suggested that the sunny ground-floor room could be a comfortable place to have breakfast and read the morning paper. It was so convenient to the kitchen, she'd pointed out, and a small table could be placed beneath the window . . . Miles had shrugged tolerantly. He didn't eat breakfast but merely sat on a stool at the bar in the kitchen to drink coffee and glance at the headlines before he hurried off. If she preferred to eat there then that was entirely up to her.

Fliss had looked at the room with new eyes. Like the kitchen, this room had a French window which looked into the narrow strip of garden at the back, whilst the front window faced into the morning sunshine and the reflections from sky and river filled the room with a pearly, luminous light. She'd begun to feel rather excited about her project and had decided that, as well as the table, there should be one or two comfortable chairs, a bookcase, perhaps, and some paintings on the walls.

She'd discussed her idea with Miles, telling him that she planned to potter about in the second-hand shops, hoping to pick up a bargain or two. How quickly Miles had vetoed this idea – they didn't need people's cast-offs and tatty old stuff – no, if it were worth doing it must be done properly. He'd arranged to have the Habitat catalogue sent and had become interested in the plan. It would have seemed churlish to fight him over it but Fliss had stood firm about one or two things – such as the corduroy hammock chairs – which he'd agreed with eventually. She'd accepted his final decisions – after all, he was paying for it and it was his house . . .

It was at this point, Fliss had realised, this was exactly how she felt about it. She loved the house, felt happy and safe in it, but it was not
her
house. Trying to be fair, she'd remembered that Miles had suggested, right at the beginning, that they could sell the house, buy something together. She'd refused, guessing that he was worried whether she minded because he'd lived in it with his first wife. It had not occurred to Fliss to mind. After all, there was nothing to remind her of poor Belinda.

Now, as she looked about the room, she remembered the argument they'd had earlier. The row had been about the house.

‘Shall we try to sell it before we go to Hong Kong?' she'd asked. ‘Or shall we rent it and put it on the market when we come back?'

‘Sell it?' he'd asked, puzzled. ‘Why ever should we sell the house?'

She'd stared at him in surprise. ‘It would be a terribly difficult house to have a baby in,' she'd pointed out. ‘Two flights of stairs. I'd be up and down all day long.'

‘No worse than The Keep.' He'd smiled at her. ‘No one seems to mind it there.'

‘But that's different,' she'd frowned. ‘There are lots of rooms on each floor at The Keep. When Daddy and Uncle Peter were small they lived almost permanently on the nursery floor. I couldn't do that here.'

It had been Miles's turn to frown. ‘Honestly, darling, it's a bit of a bore, isn't it? I like it here. Surely we can cope. At least there's a garden.'

Fliss had glanced through the window at the narrow strip and Miles had burst out laughing. ‘Your face, my sweet, says it all. Not quite up to The Keep, I agree, but lots of kids are brought up in flats.'

‘But ours don't have to be,' Fliss had protested. ‘It's a dear little house, I love it, but is there a real problem about selling it and buying something a bit bigger? Out in the country, perhaps.'

‘I don't particularly want to live in the country,' he'd said flatly. ‘I think you're exaggerating the difficulties.'

‘I don't think so,' she'd answered, anxious now but trying to keep calm. ‘You suggested selling it when we were engaged, remember? If you would have done it then, why not now?'

He'd shrugged. ‘I've been here for twenty years,' he'd said. ‘I was glad you didn't want to go somewhere else, I must admit, but I wanted everything to be perfect for you.'

‘Only then?' she'd asked lightly. ‘Not now?'

‘Of course now,' he'd answered irritably. ‘But since you've been so happy here for the last two years I don't think the question arises.'

‘It arises because of the baby,' Fliss had managed to hold on to her temper. ‘You must be able to see that. Most couples move on when they start a family.'

‘But I didn't want a family,' Miles had said. ‘I only wanted you. And it's been wonderful. Heaven knows, the baby will change all that. I don't see why I should have to move house as well.'

Fliss had stared at him, shocked. ‘You really don't want the baby?'

He'd stared back coolly, on the defensive. ‘To be truthful, no. We never discussed having a family, although I did say you ought to be on the Pill, if you remember.'

‘But why not?' She hadn't quite been able to take it in. ‘I knew you weren't really excited about it but I didn't realise that you didn't want it at all.'

‘Look,' he'd said impatiently, ‘I'm not a kid. I'm forty-one. I'll be in my sixties before it's even finished school. I wanted you, that was all, and I thought you felt the same. We were happy, having fun, free. What's it going to be like now with nappies airing all over the house and a screaming baby keeping us awake at night?'

There was silence.

‘Nobody could accuse you of having a romantic view of fatherhood,' she'd observed drily, after a few moments.

He'd laughed shortly. ‘I've seen it all before,' he'd said. ‘All my oppos have been caught sooner or later. Look, no good whingeing about it, I accept that it's happened. But I don't want to sell the house if we don't have to. Let's wait and see what happens when we get back from Hong Kong, shall we? As for letting, I'm thinking about it. I don't want people scratching the furniture and burning holes in the carpet.' He'd glanced at his watch. ‘I'm going up to watch the news. I want to see what's happening about this dock strike business. Make some coffee, would you, darling?'

So that had been that. He'd seemed unaware of her silence or her misery and she'd gone early to bed, though not to sleep . . .

Now Fliss uncurled her legs, stood up and wandered over to the window. The heaviness in her heart, which had kept her awake, would not go away. Now she had to go out to Hong Kong for two years, knowing that he did not want their child, managing alone. She swallowed back her tears, raising her chin and biting her lips as she watched the sun rise over the hill, filling the world with brilliance.

Sitting by the window on the train from Bristol, Prue Chadwick was brooding. An earlier telephone conversation with her son, Hal, had made her slightly anxious and she was trying to decide if there was anything serious to worry about or whether it was simply that Hal was being supersensitive. Not that her son was given to being overly sensitive but, since his marriage, he had matured and was now more aware of other people's feelings, especially those of his wife.

He'd talked at some length about her worries and her fears. Prue had agreed that it was terribly disappointing that darling Maria had not yet conceived a child, but surely there was plenty of time? They'd been married for barely two years and Hal had been at sea for so much of it. Clearly, Maria had been very lonely and it was natural that she should want to go home to her own parents when Hal was away – which she did very frequently – but Prue had been delighted on the several occasions when Maria had asked if she might come and stay with her in Bristol. They'd had a great deal of fun. In a very charming way, Maria bossed Prue about, pretending that she wasn't very good at looking after herself and spoiling her. Prue loved it. Kit and Hal did much the same thing and Prue was content to sit back and let them. After all, she'd managed more or less alone for over twenty-five years, ever since darling Johnny was killed, but if it made the children feel grown up and responsible she was quite happy to go along with the pretence.