The House of Vandekar (23 page)

She was in the hall reading when they arrived. Richard was drawing nearby.

‘Come on, darling,' she said. ‘We'll go and meet them.'

They came out on the top step beneath the portico, and Alice saw the child for the first time, negotiating the big steps up to the house, holding her mother's hand.

The sunlight turned her blazing red hair into a fiery aureole. She was tiny, like a little china doll. Her coat was a bright blue tweed with velvet collar, and her little strap shoes were polished until they shone. She raised a face like a fairy, with big, wide grey eyes and lisped, ‘How do you do?' to Alice.

‘What an enchanting child,' Alice said, and her mother smiled.

‘Oh, not really. She takes after Bill, you know. Red hair comes out in the family from time to time. And this is Richard? How do you do, Richard.'

Alice was proud of his good manners. He made a little bow and shook hands nicely. He and the little girl stared briefly at each other and then looked away.

‘Diana, say how do you do to Richard.' For a moment they touched hands.

‘We'll have tea first,' Alice said, ‘then we can take the children out into the grounds. I've had a swing and some slides put up for Richard. It is so nice of you to come.'

Anne Brayley followed Alice into the hall. Briefly she noticed the fine tapestries and the valuable furniture and pictures. Very rich, of course. Bill had said they were nouveau, but she envied them.

‘Diana's an afterthought, you see. We lost our only son on D-Day. He was just eighteen.'

‘I'm so sorry,' Alice murmured. She glanced behind her at Richard, who was walking silently beside the little girl. To bring up a boy and see him grow to early manhood and then to lose him on some bloody battlefield.

‘What do you want to play?' Richard demanded. He was determined to be bored. She was such a
little
girl and she kept staring at him with that silly look on her face.

She shook her head. ‘Don't know.'

He made a face. His mother would be cross if he didn't do something with her. ‘I'll swing you,' he offered. ‘Come on.'

She was so small her feet dangled high above the ground; she held to the ropes of the swing and he pushed her back and forth, longing to give it a really good shove and see her fly upwards.

She turned and lisped at him, ‘More. Push more!'

Richard gave a wicked grin. She'd asked for it. He couldn't be blamed. ‘All right. Hold on tight.'

She went up in a rising arc, high, high above his head. For a moment he panicked in case she fell off. He hadn't meant to do it quite so hard. He expected her to scream, and glanced quickly towards his mother, who was sitting talking to her mother. Instead he heard a gurgling laugh of pure excitement. He was so surprised he forgot to push again and gradually the swing came lower and lower and stopped.

Her face was bright red and she was beaming at him. ‘More,' she said. ‘More, please.'

Richard scowled. He'd been frightened himself by what he'd done. He was cross that she hadn't realized it was dangerous. ‘No,' he said. ‘Get off. Come on, get off.'

‘Can't,' she said. He went up and lifted her down, letting her drop to the ground with a bump.

‘Darling,' Alice called out, ‘why don't you and Diana play ball? There's one over there by the slide.' She had seen the incident with the swing and had held her breath until the child was safely on the ground. Luckily Anne Brayley hadn't noticed. She'd been engrossed in her own account of the relief of living in a manageable house after years of the barracks in Somerset.

‘How do you manage to keep such a big place warm?' she asked. ‘We were always frozen in the winter. People used to come down in their overcoats to dinner.'

‘I couldn't put up with that,' Alice answered. ‘Americans hate a cold house. Luckily my husband feels the same. We've done a lot to Ashton since the war, and a really efficient heating system was my top priority. How do you like being in the district? It's very social. I expect you've found that out already.'

‘Yes, people have been very kind. We've had a lot of invitations. Trouble is, Bill, my husband, doesn't really enjoy entertaining. He makes such a fuss that half of the fun goes out of it.'

‘Then you must come to us,' Alice said. ‘Hugo and I always have a houseful most weekends. He has a lot of political entertaining to do and I mix in my own friends. We had such a miserable time in the war, didn't we? I guess we're owed a bit of fun to make up for it.'

‘That would be nice,' Anne Brayley enthused. ‘Bill has the reputation of being a bit grumpy, but I'm sure he'd enjoy himself with you.'

‘Then I'll look up the diary and call you,' Alice promised. ‘Now, I think it's getting a bit cold for the children, don't you?'

‘Oh? Yes, I suppose it is. Bill says I fuss too much over Diana. He says she ought to be brought up to be hardy. I keep telling him she's not a boy.' She laughed rather nervously.

Alice got up and called the children. A boy. In her whole life she'd never seen anything more aggressively feminine than that dainty child. There was no sense of premonition, no warning. She'd seldom seen two more beautiful children than her son and the little Brayley daughter as they ran towards her on that late spring afternoon.

4

‘I don't want a party,' Fern protested. ‘I don't want to be a deb and waste my time with silly girls and dances. Please, Daddy, you know I've set my heart on going to art school. Can't you talk Mummy out of it?
Please?
'

Hugo patted her shoulder. She was nearly as tall as her mother, although she lacked Alice's grace and slenderness. He loved her so much; they had a bond that couldn't be described, he and his daughter. Perhaps it was the shared knowledge that Alice didn't love them. He often pondered that. The miracle was that now he didn't love Alice. He owed his release to Fern. ‘I'll try, but I can't promise. You should have some kind of coming-out, you know, darling. It's expected.'

She moved impatiently. ‘Oh, Daddy, not any more! It's different now. It's just a lot of parties and money – anyone can do it. I'd hate it. I'd really hate it. And if I wasn't a success, you know Mummy would be disappointed.'

Hugo put his arm round Fern. ‘Your mother only wants you to make new friends. She's such an extrovert, she doesn't understand that you wouldn't enjoy it. She was such a star herself, she imagines it's the same for everyone else.'

‘I'm not a star,' Fern said. ‘Richard's the star. I'll be a flop, and she'll never let me forget it. He should have been the girl,' she added. ‘He's got all the looks, Daddy. He's just like Mummy. Everyone says so.'

Hugo said gently, ‘I know they do. But you're wrong about yourself. You're a very pretty girl. You'd be a great success if you wanted to be – don't have any doubts about that. But if you really mean it, then I'll talk to your mother again.'

‘I'll go to art college instead,' she promised. ‘I'll work terribly hard and then you'll both be proud of me. Do try, Daddy, won't you?'

‘Why didn't she come to me?' Alice demanded. ‘Why does she have to go whining to you behind my back?'

She had driven down from London after a day spent at two charity committee meetings and a fitting at Dior for three new outfits. She was tired and worried – she had telephoned Phoebe in New York and sensed that she wasn't well. Now Hugo appeared before dinner, campaigning on behalf of Fern. She was not in a sympathetic mood. ‘She's so underhand and you encourage her!'

‘She's not underhand,' he said. ‘She's frightened of you, Alice. You know she is. It's a lot of nonsense, saying she goes behind your back. She doesn't want a London season, and I don't see why she should be bullied into it.'

Alice lit a cigarette, then snapped her lighter shut. ‘Bullied, my foot,' she retorted. ‘She twists you round her little finger. OK, OK, she doesn't want a dance, she doesn't want to meet people, but she's not damned well staying here making trouble between us! She wants to go to art college, then she goes as soon as the autumn term starts. Now don't let's talk about it any more. I could do with a drink. Ring the bell, will you, please?'

She asked for vodka and tonic, Hugo ordered whisky and soda for himself. ‘How was London?' He didn't want to prolong the quarrel. He hated atmospheres, and Alice was adept at keeping a row going these days. She was short-tempered and impatient, even with Lily. The sunshine was reserved for Richard when he came home on exeat from school.

‘Tiring,' she said. ‘Meetings for the Red Cross and the Palladium Gala. My bloody dresses weren't ready either, so I've got to go up again next week. I called Phoebe today. She doesn't sound very well.'

‘Oh?' He liked his mother-in-law. He had been sorry when she'd gone back to the States. Phoebe was fond of Fern, and Fern missed her. His mother had died two years ago. She had left Richard a considerable sum of money. Because of that resemblance, real or imagined … ‘What's the matter?'

‘She wouldn't say,' Alice answered. ‘You know what she's like – she doesn't like making a fuss. Hugo, I might fly over before the Christmas hullabaloo starts down here, just to check on her. She says she is seeing a doctor next week. She's losing weight and she feels tired all the time. You won't mind, will you?'

‘Of course not. I'd come too, but I can't get away from the House. Try not to worry. I'm sure she'll be all right. Perhaps you could persuade her to come over?'

‘That's what I thought,' Alice agreed. ‘At least I can see she takes care of herself.'

Fern joined them for dinner. Nothing was said about the future. Fern glanced at Hugo and was given a little nod of encouragement. It was all right, he'd talked her mother round. Looking at Alice's set face, Fern knew it hadn't been without a struggle.

We've won, she thought and kept her eyes down, eating quickly, anxious to get away from the atmosphere. Daddy beat her this time. I will one day. One day I'll stand up to her and get my way. Because I know what she really is. I know what it meant when I found her snogging with that man, bringing him upstairs at night. She's betrayed Daddy. While he was away fighting she was sleeping with that other man. I don't believe Richard is my real brother …

‘If you gobble your food down like that, you'll get indigestion,' Alice said suddenly. ‘And that'll give you spots.'

Fern didn't answer. She put her knife and fork together, leaving the rest of the food on her plate.

‘There's no need to sulk,' her mother said sharply.

Fern looked up at her. ‘I'm not sulking,' she said. ‘I don't want any more, thank you.'

Hugo interposed. ‘Your grandmother isn't well,' he said, explaining Alice's bad mood.

‘Oh no. What's the matter?' Fern was genuinely worried.

‘We don't know,' Alice said. ‘She's going to see her doctor, and I may fly over to see her.'

‘Couldn't she come for Christmas?' Fern suggested. ‘I'd love her to come.'

‘I'll tell her that,' Alice said. She felt guilty for having picked on the girl. Fern was fond of Phoebe; it was nice of her to say that about Christmas.

She smiled at Fern, but Fern didn't smile back. ‘I didn't mean to snap,' she said. ‘I've had a tiring day, and I've been worried about Granny too. Have some pudding, Fern. It's that lemon syllabub you like.'

‘No thank you,' her daughter said. ‘I don't want to get fat. Or get spots.'

There was no Christmas celebration at Ashton that year.

Hugo and Fern and Richard joined Alice in New York. Early in the New Year Phoebe died in her sleep. With her daughter at her bedside. It was a peaceful end; the cancer that had eaten away her red blood cells was mercifully painless. She had faded so rapidly that the tired sleep passed imperceptibly into a gentle eternity. Alice was holding her mother's hand. She dozed and woke to find it cold and limp. Neither husband nor children were allowed to witness the depth of her grief. As she had mourned the man she loved in solitude so many years ago, so she wept for the loss of her mother alone. She seemed to shrink from human contact; even her son was gently put aside. She couldn't share the pain with any of them. Only Lily, who had seen it happen before, understood Alice's need for privacy.

‘We're all so upset,' Fern complained, crying on Hugo's shoulder, ‘Why can't we be together? Why does Mummy have to go off on her own?'

‘I don't know, darling,' Hugo answered. ‘It's not easy for your mother to show her feelings. It's been a dreadful blow to her.' But he hugged Fern closer to make up for it.

Richard was very silent. At nearly fifteen he felt it unmanly to cry. It wouldn't have taken much to bring out the tears. He had loved Phoebe, as he loved his grandmother Beatrice. What was worse was seeing his mother tight-lipped and anguished, hiding herself away. He wanted to comfort her. He wanted someone to comfort him. Fern had her father; his father had Fern. He sat on his own and felt a sense of isolation that was very painful.

‘I'm going to find her,' he said suddenly in a voice that wasn't quite steady. Father and daughter looked up in surprise, as if they'd forgotten he was there. Then he rushed out and knocked on Alice's closed bedroom door. ‘Mother – Mother – let me in.'

She heard the sob in his voice. She opened the door to him and they held tightly to each other. When they came out together, Richard's arm protectively around her shoulders, the polarization between brother and sister, Hugo and Alice, was complete. At Phoebe's funeral they stood on opposite sides of the grave. Fern began her first term at art college, and Richard went back to Eton. Hugo was given a junior ministry that year, and Alice organized and entertained with grim determination. Work was the antidote to sorrow. She owed it to the brave and gentle woman who was gone not to wilt and waste the precious years. The loss of Phoebe had done something fundamental to her relationship with Hugo and with Fern. She didn't have to pretend to love one or even like the other any more. She and Richard were essentially on their own.