Two Loves (12 page)

‘Terrible. And Joss has gone to stay with Harry?'

‘Yes. They've gone to North Wales. To their Granny. Yes, the whole family. Well, her husband couldn't cope with a new baby, could he, as well as everything else? His mother is a doctor's widow, apparently, a very capable woman no doubt, with a big house near Denbigh in North Wales, and he's taken them all there. Of course the older boys were better able to cope, but Mr Woodison felt Harry would be so much happier if he had Joss with him. He came to see me after school yesterday. I think Mrs Butler or the Headmistress must have given him our address, and I didn't feel I could refuse. He'll be bringing the boys – but not the baby, of course – back on Tuesday for the funeral on Wednesday. Cremation I think, dear, though I can't help feeling that a burial would be much easier for the children to accept. There's something very brutal about … What is it, dear?'

‘I think I'm going to…'

‘Put your head right down between your knees. That's it. Very disturbing, isn't it? Shall I get you a drop of brandy? Oh, you really should keep a bottle in the house, dear, for this sort of occasion. Well, I'll make you some tea. Now don't sit up too suddenly. Harry's father left you his mother's telephone number so that you can contact Joss later on. I expect they'll be there by about seven. Now would you like to come and have supper with Brian and me? I've got a piece of really fresh Scottish salmon with new potatoes, new peas and watercress sauce, and you can tell me all about your father and Dora.'

‘Thank you. I have to talk to Thomas first – and to Joss, of course. But I suppose I will get hungry and I'm not feeling up to doing much for myself.'

‘Of course not. Drink your tea, dear. They should be there by seven, so that you can phone and come afterwards. I'll make supper for eight. We might go to the George, later, to cheer you up.'

‘Mum, I had a bit of a fling with Thomas. Which is why I feel so particularly dreadful.'

Her mother sighed dramatically. ‘I had gathered something, of course. Joss used to talk so much about him. Everything was Thomas at one time. I thought you seemed … very good friends.'

‘It was over, though, Mum. We'd broken it off because of the new baby.'

‘So you must put it right out of your mind, dear.'

‘She'd lost a very prestigious job. That was her main worry, I know that.'

‘Quite. And having a baby at her time of life was the worst thing she could have done. It plays havoc with the hormones. Did I tell you there was an article about it in the May
Readers Digest?
Remind me to show it to you. Do you feel better now, or would you like me to stay with you for a while? Are you quite sure? I'll be on my way then, dear, to let you get on with the unpacking and so on. By the way, I put Joss's school clothes and his games kit in the washing machine as soon as he got back this afternoon, so they'll be clean and ironed for him when he gets back.'

‘Thanks, Mum. What would I do without you?'

If only she had a mind like her mother's, Rosamund thought, everything thrust neatly into its own compartment and shut away. She walked with her to the car. ‘Love to Brian,' she called as Marian pulled away.

*   *   *

When her mother had gone, Rosamund put on some boots and climbed up Barrow Hill. It was a misty evening, the sky dove-coloured, the air still, the bleating of sheep and lambs the only sound. Eliza's face was before her, thin and finely drawn, long straight nose, fair hair fashionably sculpted, pale drooping eyes with reddened eyelids; a face often plain but occasionally beautiful. She suddenly remembered the way she'd shrugged her shoulders when she'd last seen her. A gesture, she realised now, of utter despondency, a signal that she was somewhere far, far beyond hope. Why hadn't she felt able to respond to that despair? Was it from guilt? Because women were supposed to stick together – sisters – not steal each other's husbands? But Eliza, God knows, had never made the slightest overture of friendship towards her. It was Thomas who had needed her, whereas Eliza had made it very clear that she was far too busy to have anything to do with any of her neighbours in the village. She often had evenings out – dinners with important clients, she told Thomas – though Rosamund had always suspected more intimate occasions.

She felt an immense sympathy for poor Eliza, but anger too, at what she had done. She should have considered Thomas and their children. In her agitation, Rosamund climbed the hill faster and faster until her chest began to ache with the strain, and when she sat down at last on a low stone wall, she burst out crying, her loud, terrible sobs frightening her by their suddenness and because they reminded her of the way Eliza had cried the last time they'd met.

Once she'd started she couldn't seem to stop. She was filled with a sorrow and an anger she couldn't bear. Everything had gone wrong and there seemed no comfort in the world. By this time she didn't know whether she was crying for herself because she'd lost Daniel, for Eliza, driven to despair, or for Thomas left alone with three motherless boys and a baby who didn't even have a name. What had Tess called her little son? Sorrow. She started sobbing again, even more desperately than before.

And then it was over. Nothing could get worse, she told herself, so it could only get better. And as she blew her nose and dried her eyes she saw the sunset, tenderly pink and calm in all the misty greyness. It seemed an omen; it seemed like hope.

She sat for a few more minutes, then made her way home, still gulping air and sniffing.

When she arrived, she felt more tired than she'd ever felt in her life. She wished she hadn't agreed to go to her mother's for supper; what she needed was a sandwich and an early night.

The telephone rang and she rushed to answer it, hoping it was Joss. But it was Ingrid to tell her that she and Ben had had a devastating row. Something had gone wrong concerning the autobiography. He wouldn't tell her what it was because he was convinced it was something she already knew. ‘What can it be?' she asked Rosamund. ‘Do you know anything about it?'

‘No, nothing. Erica didn't mention any sort of hitch.'

‘Will you let me know if you hear anything?'

‘Of course.'

‘He's moved out, Rosamund. I thought he was bluffing, but he packed all his bags and went.'

‘God, I'm sorry. Whatever can be the matter with him? He seemed in a pretty bad mood when I was there.'

‘He was. And afterwards he got worse and worse. He seemed to think it was you who'd persuaded Erica Underhill to change her mind about publishing the poems. And of course he knows the book would be a financial disaster without the poems.'

‘I had nothing to do with it. I didn't suggest that she change her mind, because I knew how much she needed the money. Perhaps Molly or her son have tried to put pressure on her. I've no idea, but I'll let you know if I hear anything.'

‘I'm really upset, Rosamund. I know he was boorish when you were here, but he isn't usually like that. I'm really desperate.'

‘I'll phone you tomorrow, Ingrid. I'm expecting a call from Joss now. Things are very complicated here; too complicated to explain at the moment, but I'll ring you tomorrow.'

‘You don't sound very concerned or sympathetic.'

‘Of course I am, Ingrid. All the same, I've got to ring off now.'

*   *   *

It was almost eight before Thomas rang. He told her that everyone was all right, including Joss. He begged her not to feel guilty about anything, but he himself sounded overwhelmed with guilt and despair.

‘Here's Joss,' he said suddenly, as though he couldn't manage another word without breaking down.

‘I'm being a great help, Mum,' Joss assured her. ‘Granny said I must try to be a great help and I am. I'm not arguing with Martin and Stephen and I'm not fighting with Harry and I'm saying thank you and please may I to their Granny and passing things at the table.'

‘You're a very good boy and I miss you.'

‘I knew you'd say that. Tomorrow we're going to a funfair at the seaside.'

‘Be very careful, won't you, on the rides.'

‘I knew you'd say that.'

*   *   *

‘Thomas is taking the boys to a funfair tomorrow,' Rosamund told her mother and Brian over supper. ‘I do hope they'll all be safe.'

‘Of course they will. Harry's father is a teacher, isn't he, so he's used to looking after children.'

‘He didn't look after his wife too well,' Brian said. ‘Frank Dudley was telling us there was another woman involved.'

‘Rubbish,' Marian retorted. ‘His poor wife was suffering from post-natal depression. I saw her in the butcher's last week and she looked frightful. It's strange how people can't accept any obvious explanation but have to invent some unpleasant story. They just can't resist a bit of scandal.'

‘She'd lost her job,' Rosamund added. ‘She was one of the directors of some computer company. She was sacked and her PA promoted.'

‘That wasn't the story, according to Frank Dudley.' Brian coughed, declining further revelations till they were more suitably impressed.

‘Frank Dudley is an old woman. Don't mention him again, I beg you. Why don't you stay here tonight, dear?' Marian asked Rosamund. ‘Why go back to that empty house?'

‘I think I should. There may be a phone-call. I feel I should be there.'

‘Anyway, you'll come to the George with us, won't you? Just for one drink? You'll feel so much better to be with a crowd. It's no use dwelling on the tragedy when you can't do anything to help. Don't you think I'm right, Brian?'

Brian looked as though he might still be offended. ‘No, I don't think one drink will be much help. She's had a nasty shock so she'll need at least two or three, and we'll drive her home afterwards.'

*   *   *

In bed, after several gins at the George, Rosamund thought about being in love, the extraordinary force of it. Suddenly, out of the blue; there she was again, all her nerve-endings quivering. It was like being nineteen again, and all the time in between – teaching, looking after poor Anthony, taking Joss to clinic and nursery school, years of conscientiously trying to paint, times when she'd considered herself growing into a sensible, mature woman – all might never have been. She was a student again, hanging out of her window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Daniel Hawkins passing on his way to college.

She thought of Thomas with affection and pain. He was bound to blame himself for Eliza's death, but she felt convinced that he'd done all in his power to make her happy. When they'd begun their affair, it was quite apparent to her that his marriage was in a state of terminal decline and that he wouldn't have embarked even on an extra-marital flirtation if that hadn't been the case. ‘I'll never be able to leave Eliza,' he'd told her over and over again, ‘so do you think this is fair to you?'

‘Of course it is. I haven't got anything else, have I, so this is a plus. We're friends, after all, as well as occasional lovers.' She knew very well that she could never have been so fair-minded and undemanding if she'd been violently in love. As she was with Daniel.

‘Violently in love,' she murmured to herself, savouring the words. ‘I'm violently in love.'

So how could she have come back to bury herself in the country, when it was surely her place to stay in London until she'd found her love again!

She got out of bed and went downstairs. It was two in the morning, an empty mournful time, silent except for the ticking of the clock. She felt like ringing Dora to tell her to find her a flat as soon as possible. She needed to be in London again. She had to find Daniel again. If she had enough faith in her quest she would succeed. She found herself crying once more – not in that hard, desperate way, as before – but with a quiet litany of sobs.

She'd put the schoolhouse on the market, sell the furniture with it, because it wouldn't suit a London flat, get rid of her paints and all the painting paraphernalia, give up the thought of being an artist, perhaps take a job in a gallery. ‘I'm violently in love,' she told herself over and over again, whenever the prospect seemed daunting.

She went to the kitchen and made herself a pot of tea. How had she been able to stay so long in Anthony's house, with nothing of her own surrounding her? She was sick of the country pine, the blue and white china and the yellow walls; she wanted something quite different – an elegant little flat like Dora's, with of course a large, untidy room for Joss.

‘I am violently in love,' she told herself, trying to forget something she'd often suspected; that violent love usually ended in violent loss for at least one of the couple. Violent loss, disillusion and destruction.

Chapter Eleven

The baby didn't stop crying. Once or twice when Joss held his long delicate fingers, he almost stopped, went, ‘La, la, la,' his mouth quivering, which wasn't so bad. Joss liked the new baby, though the other boys said he was nothing but a nuisance. If it was his baby brother he'd call him Jim – or Jimbo – and he'd pick him up and play with him and stop him being so sad. ‘La, la, little baby,' he said to himself. His hand was like a starfish.

Mrs Woodison said crying was good for a baby's lungs and that he'd be spoilt if he was picked up between feeds. She said Harry was spoilt because he wouldn't finish his boiled egg. When she went to the kitchen to put more water in the teapot, Harry said it was full of shit, and they all laughed, even Thomas.

Mrs Woodison lived in a little grey village surrounded by grey hills where it rained every day; it was a beauty spot. The name of the village was ‘The Church near the Waterfall', but none of them could pronounce it. She told them that the church had a famous stained glass window and that they could go to see it if the rain stopped, and Stephen said, ‘How delightful,' and they all spluttered again. But when
Saturday Morning Roundabout
was over, they put their anoraks on, deciding to go and find the waterfall to throw stones at it. Thomas had important letters to write, but he promised faithfully to take them to the funfair the next day.