First Friends (51 page)

‘How's everythin' goin', my lover?'

‘It's worked out like a dream.' Not usually given to demonstrative ways, Jane clasped Mrs Hampton's forearm and shook it. ‘You were right, you know, about Mrs Wivenhoe—Cass. She's just sorted everything out like magic. She seems to know everyone. I've wanted to come and tell you but I'm staying in as much as possible. See what I mean? In case I see Phil. That's why I'm out so early.' Her voice dropped to a whisper, though there was no one in earshot. ‘He keeps phoning up. Threatening to come to the house.'

Mrs Hampton drew Jane to one side as someone opened the shop door from inside.

‘You haven't told him?'

‘God, no! Told him I wasn't well and the doctor said I had to rest or I'd lose the baby. Last time we were together he was a bit, well, rough like. He'd had a few. So I told him it was his fault and I've got to stay in bed. Only a week or so to go now, thank God.'

Looking at Jane, Mrs Hampton began to wonder if she were, after all, doing the right thing in encouraging her. Of course it was right to be faithful and loyal to your husband, no question about that, but she couldn't, somehow, see Jane placed happily amongst the officers and their wives.

The simple truth of the matter was that Jane had tried to better herself. Mrs Hampton didn't hold with it. No harm in improving your lifestyle, broadening your outlook, stretching the brain, as long as you didn't pretend. Once you started to pretend you were all set for misery. And Jane did pretend. Mrs Hampton was well aware of Jane's refinements; her speech—which tended to slip when she was excited or relaxed—her clothes and her home were all proof of this to those who knew her of old. Mrs Hampton sighed, filled with foreboding. Well, it was too late now. She'd made her bed and she would have to lie on it. She was as likely to have as much happiness with one as with the other.

‘I'm glad to see you lookin' brighter,' she said. ‘You looked right worried when I saw you last.'

‘Yeah, I know.' Jane gave a self-conscious little laugh. ‘I was out of my mind. But I'll be all right now, though. As long as I can keep out of his way.' She looked, almost fearfully, up the village street. ‘Silly, isn't it?'

‘When d'you think you'll be off?'

‘I'm waiting to hear from Alan. Could be as soon as this weekend. Dunno how he'll take it. All sudden, like. I shall be glad when it's all over.'

‘ 'Course you will. I ‘ope we'll be able to say goodbye proper like.'

‘I'm gonna miss you.' Looking at Mrs Hampton's comfortable shape and kindly face representing, for the moment, her childhood and roots, Jane felt an overwhelming sense of loss and fear: she would miss Mrs Hampton, her mum and sister down near Plymouth, the village and the friends of her youth. Although she had tried to separate herself from them, rise above them as it were, they had been there, within call, part of her daily life. She was going among strangers—she included Alan—and leaving her own people.

Mrs Hampton saw the panic in her eyes and guessed, rightly, the reason for it.

‘Everythin'll be fine, my lover. It'll all blow over an' then you'll be ‘ome again with a new member of the family to show us all. ‘Twill go like a flash.'

‘I suppose so,' said Jane slowly. ‘I hope so. I don't want to go away forever.'

‘An' why should you? 'Tis your 'ome. Young Philip'll get over it an' 'twill be good for you to get away an' see somethin' of the world. We'll still all be 'ere, waitin' for you.'

‘You'd better be.' Jane tried for a lighter note. ‘We'll stay in touch, though, won't we? I'll be able to ring you up for a chat, like. It'll be strange at first.'

‘We can write too, can't we? Taught you that at the village school, didn't they? Well, then! An' you'll ‘ave your Alan with you. ‘Tisn't as if he's at sea. You'll ‘ave a lovely time. Little outin's in the car. ‘Tis a pretty county, Kent. Oh, you'll ‘ave a wonderful time! An' then there's the baby to look forward to; you'll be rushed off your feet.'

‘Yeah, I know, really. I'm being silly. It's the baby, I reckon, makes you all emotional like. You can't come over for a cuppa?'

‘Not this mornin', my lover. I've gotta go over to the Rectory. They've all been away for the weekend so I may be able to get on a bit before any of 'em's back.' She felt compassion, however, at Jane's expression. The days are long when you're in hiding. ‘Course I could come in about teatime. ‘ow's that suit you?'

‘Oh, yes! That'd be great! I'll go home and do a bit of baking. It'll make a change from knitting.'

‘Thass right, love, keep yourself busy. I'll see you later on, then.'

They parted and Mrs Hampton entered the shop. Having bought one or two items, which, since they were to be used for the cleaning of the Wivenhoes' home, she put on Cass's bill, she crossed the green and went up the Rectory drive. The kitchen door was locked but she had her own key and, letting herself in, hung her coat up on one of the hooks in the passage, changed her shoes and went into the kitchen.

Charlotte sat at the kitchen table staring at a bowl of uneaten cornflakes.

‘Well, there! I didn't know anyone was 'ere. When did you get back?' She looked more closely at Charlotte. There was something wrong with the child.

‘And 'ow was Bristol then?' she asked when Charlotte showed no disposition to speak. ‘Did you manage to see Hugh?'

Charlotte shook her head and her lips trembled. ‘He wasn't there. They said he'd gone away for the weekend. With friends.' She paused, rubbing her hands over her mouth and gazed wildly round the kitchen. ‘But I saw him. I went out for a walk and I saw him. Them.' She stared at Mrs Hampton. ‘He was with a girl. That Lucinda that was at the party. They didn't see me. They were all over each other, in public, kissing, his hands were all over her. And then he saw me.' Her face twitched uncontrollably, as expressions of horror, distaste, anger and misery chased across it. ‘They came up to me and started talking. Hugh didn't know what to say but she didn't care. She laughed and said they were having a naughty weekend at her brother's flat, just the two of them. She had her arms all round him. And he . . . he . . . ' She choked over her words. ‘He spoke to me as if I were just some friend or other. Asked who I was staying with. I told him I was with Ma and he looked . . . he looked . . . relieved!' She wrenched the last word out painfully and, as she did so, she collapsed across the table, arms outstretched, her head upsetting the bowl of cereal, milk splashing over her face.

Mrs Hampton, who had been shocked into silence by this recital, pulled herself together and hurried to her, hauling her upright and wiping Charlotte's face with the apron she still held in her hand.

‘There, there, my lover, gently, gently now. Let ‘Ammy dry your face. Ssh, now, quiet now.' The abandonment of Charlotte's grief terrified her and she rocked her against her bosom while the tears poured out of the girl's eyes into her open mouth, stretched wide in a silent scream. She lay like a great rag doll in her arms. Desperately Mrs Hampton looked round for inspiration. She would phone Kate. Kate would know how to handle it.

‘Look my lover, look, sit up properly now. Up we come.' It was like dealing with a drunk person. ‘Look, come over 'ere, then, where ‘tis comfortable.' She led Charlotte, reeling, to the rocking chair and propped her in it. ‘I'm gonna make you a nice ‘ot strong cuppa. Sit
there, now. That's it.' She went to the Aga where the kettle, probably put on by Charlotte earlier, had almost boiled itself dry, refilled it and glanced back at her. The girl sat, slumped in the rocker, tears trickling from beneath her closed lids.

Mrs Hampton slipped into the hall and picked up the telephone receiver.

A
T LUNCHTIME ON
M
ONDAY
, Harriet paused outside Michael's office and peered through the window, looking beyond the revolving photographs of desirable properties to the brightly lit interior. There was no sign of Michael. He might be closeted with a client in his office, out taking on a new property or doing a survey. She was conscious of a feeling of great disappointment.

Yesterday afternoon, after Tom had left, she had washed her hair and soaked in a hot bath for some time before dressing in clean clothes and changing the sheets on the bed. Then, after a general clean round, she had driven up on to the moor and, parking at Sampford Spiney, embarked on a long, refreshing walk. She felt that she wanted to slough Tom off, to rid herself, as it were, of the feel of him, the smell of him and his presence generally: she wanted to cleanse herself of him, mentally and physically. Her obsession for him was over as if it had never been and she could only marvel at and regret all those years she had spent mooning after him. What a fool she'd been. She thought of Ralph and felt a wave of remorse and self-disgust. With her mad infatuation colouring her emotions the marriage had stood no chance. She knew now that she had never been in love with Ralph; nevertheless, she knew that they would have done much better if she had not clung to her stubborn idealistic love for Tom. She thought of him, dying alone in the water, and felt horror, guilt and real sorrow. She knew that it had been an accident, Ralph was not the suicidal type, and she knew too that he had not been in love with her, but they might have been as happy as most people are and certainly a great deal happier than they had been.

It was all over. There was no point in looking back. At least she had
come to her senses before any more lives were spoiled. She thought of Michael. She needed desperately to see him but knew that it must wait until tomorrow. She did not want to see him on the same day that she had been with Tom.

‘I'm being silly,' she said aloud to herself, as she trod the short sheep-bitten turf, ‘but I want it to be a completely new start.'

So now she stood, hesitating, until one of the girls inside saw her and waved. That decided her; she opened the door and smiled.

‘Is he in?'

‘Yes, he is. And there's no one with him.' Tessa had a delightfully warm West Country drawl—Michael believed in employing the locals—and a round smiling face beneath fuzzy blonde hair. ‘Go on in, I would. I've just taken him his coffee. Would you like one?'

‘Yes, please.' Harriet smiled at Rebecca who, at present, wore the glazed expression of one plugged into a dictaphone and knocked at Michael's door.

‘Come in,' he shouted.

He was standing at a filing cabinet and turned as she entered.

‘Harriet!' His pleasure was quite genuine and she felt enormous relief. During the sleepless hours of the night terror had gripped her. Supposing that, now that she had discovered that she couldn't live without him, he realised that he didn't care for her after all? Or perhaps he might have a car accident going to Tavistock in the morning . . . or she might . . .

‘Hello.' She was aware that she was grinning foolishly but could do nothing about it. ‘I thought I'd come to see you.'

‘I'm delighted. Sit down, won't you? How was your weekend?'

‘OK,' she said awkwardly. ‘Any chance of taking you out to lunch?'

‘We can do better than that!' he answered promptly. ‘I've got to take on a property near Moretonhampstead. Why not come with me? The house is empty so you can help me measure up. We can get lunch at a pub somewhere. How about it?'

Harriet glowed with pleasure.

‘Sounds marvellous. I'd love it.'

‘Good. I'm hoping that you'll be able to come in full-time this week. We're terribly busy. We really need you, don't we, Tessa?' He smiled at the girl who came in with Harriet's coffee.

‘We certainly do! Even if it's only to give him someone else to nag at. It'll give us a break.'

They all laughed and Tessa withdrew.

‘Let me finish this report and I'll be with you.' Michael drew some papers towards him. ‘It won't take me a moment and then we'll get off.'

‘Suits me.' Harriet sipped her coffee—thank goodness Tessa could make decent coffee, so important that one's workmates could—and let her gaze roam round the office.

Michael sat at ease, in a huge Windsor chair behind his equally huge mahogany desk which was covered, as usual, with papers, files and forms. Pens and pencils stood in a green Wedgwood pot and two china dishes, designed to hold sweetcorn, held paper clips, elastic bands and the like. His personality was stamped everywhere. The room, unlike the modern front office, was part of the old house behind and had once been someone's sitting room. Michael had retained and used the lovely old Victorian fireplace and several prints of the same period hung on either side of it. The opposite wall was lined with books and the whole effect was that of a study more than an office. Harriet noticed that a pair of gumboots stood beneath an old-fashioned hat-stand on a worn, but still lovely, Persian rug. The window opened on to a side yard used by the people next door and to which Michael had access should he so wish. He looked up and smiled at her and her whole being glowed with happiness.

He loves me, she thought. Let joy be unconfined!

‘Heavens!' He gave a start of dismay. ‘I've just remembered! Minutes before you appeared Kate Webster phoned. She sounded in a bit of a state. She's at the Rectory. Apparently the girl—what's her name, Charlotte?—has been taken ill and Cass is away. Anyway, she says can you phone?'

Harriet's spirits plummeted. Kate, no doubt, wanted to know
where Tom was and, with Cass away, Harriet was the only other person who might know. The grubbiness of the whole affair swept over her and she felt ashamed. She didn't want to speak to Kate or to see Cass, or indeed any of the Wivenhoes. It was all over. But, said her conscience, Cass was very good to you when Ralph died. Perhaps Charlotte's really ill and with Tom away at sea . . .