Flowers in the Rain & Other Stories (28 page)

The hill sloped gently down towards the wood. On this hill, she and David had sledged as children; in the wood, they had, one summer, built a camp, and baked potatoes in the ashes of their fire. Where the river curved into the Dixons’ land, they had fished for trout, and on hot days bathed in the clear shallows. It seemed that the whole of this small world was littered with memories of David.

David. That last evening. “You’re saying that you don’t want to see me any more.” Angry, and hurt, she had finally blurted it out.

“Oh, Antonia, I’m being honest. Without meaning to hurt you. I can’t go on pretending. I can’t lie to you. We can’t go on like this. It’s not fair for either of us, and it’s not fair to our families.”

“I suppose you’re in love with Samantha.”

“I’m not in love with anybody. I don’t want to be. I don’t want to settle down. I don’t want to commit myself. I’m twenty-two and you’re twenty. Let’s learn to live without each other, and be ourselves.”

“I am myself.”

“No, you’re not. You’re part of me. Somehow, you’re all entangled with me. It’s a good thing, but it’s a bad thing, too, because we’ve neither of us ever been free.”

Free. He called it being free, but for Antonia, it meant being alone. On the other hand, as her mother had said, you couldn’t be self-reliant until you’d learned to live with yourself. She tipped back her head and looked up through the black winter branches of the overhead trees, to grey and comfortless sky beyond.

You hold most fast to the people you love by gently letting them go.
Long ago, some person had said this to her—or she had read it. The source of wisdom was forgotten, but the words suddenly, out of nowhere, resurfaced. If she loved David enough to let him go, then, that way, he would never be wholly lost to her. And she had already had so much of him … it was greedy to yearn for more.

Besides—and this was a surprising, cool-headed revelation, and something of a shock—she didn’t want to get married any more that he did. She didn’t want to get engaged, have a wedding, settle down forever. The world spread far beyond this valley, beyond London, beyond the bounds of her own imagination. Out there, it waited for her, filled with people she had yet to meet and things that she had yet to do. David had known this. This was what he had been trying to tell her.

A sense of proportion. Relative values. Once you had got these worked out, things didn’t look so bleak after all. In fact, a number of interesting possibilities began to present themselves. Perhaps she had worked for too long in the bookshop. Perhaps it was time to move on—go abroad, even. She could be a cook on a Mediterranean yacht, or look after some Parisian child and learn to speak really good French; or …

A cold nose nuzzled her hand. She looked down and the old dog stared plaintively up at her, telling her, with large brown eyes, that he was sick of sitting there in the snow, and wanted to get on with his walk, chase some more rabbits. Antonia realized that she too had grown chill. She got up off the stump and they started for home, not retracing their steps, but setting off down the snow-deep fields towards the wood. After a little, she began to run, not simply because she was cold, but with something of the high spirits of childhood.

She came to the wood, and then to the track that led through the trees to the Dixons’ farm. She came to the clearing where the beech had fallen. Already its immense trunk had been sliced into lengths by the chain-saw, and a way cleared, but devastation lay all about, along with the smell of newly sawn timber, and the fragrance of wood-smoke from a smouldering fire. There was nobody about, but as she stood there, mourning the demise of the noble tree, she heard a tractor coming down the road from the farm, and the next moment it appeared around the bend of the lane, with Tom at the wheel. Reaching the clearing, he killed the engine and climbed down out of the cab. He wore dungarees and an old sweater and a donkey jacket, but, despite the cold, was bareheaded.

“Antonia.”

“Hello, Tom.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Just out for a walk. I heard the saw going.”

“We’ve been at it most of the afternoon.”

He was older than David and neither so tall nor so handsome. His weather-beaten face did not often smile, but this seriousness was belied by his amused pale eyes, which always seemed to brim with incipient laughter. “Got rid of the worst of it now.” He went to the smouldering bonfire and kicked the grey ashes into life. “At least we won’t need to worry about firewood for a month or two. And how are things with you?”

“All right.”

He looked up, and across the little flames and the sweet plume of smoke, their eyes met. “How’s David?”

“He’s all right, too.”

“He didn’t come with you?”

“No, he stayed in London.” She buried her hands deep into the pockets of the sheepskin coat, and said, as she had not been able to say to her mother, “He’s going skiing next week with the Crawstons. Didn’t you know that?”

“I think my mother said something about it.”

“They’ve taken a villa in Val d’Isère. They asked him to go with them.”

“Didn’t they ask you?”

“No. Nigel Crawston’s got a girl of his own.”

“Is Samantha Crawston David’s girl now?”

Antonia met his steady gaze. She said, “Yes. For the moment.”

Tom stooped, gathered up another branch and threw it onto the fire. “Does that worry you?” he asked her.

“It did, but not any more.”

“When did all this happen?”

“It’s been happening for some time, only I didn’t want to admit it.”

“Are you unhappy?”

“I was. But not any longer. David says we each have to live our own lives. And he’s right. We’ve been close for too long.”

“Were you hurt?”

“A bit,” she admitted. “But I don’t own David. I don’t possess him.”

Tom was silent for a moment. “That’s a pretty grown-up thing to say,” he observed then.

“But it’s true, isn’t it, Tom. And at least now we know where we stand. Not just David and me, but all of us.”

“I know what you mean. It certainly makes things easier.” He tossed another armful of branches onto the flames, and there was the sizzling sound of melting snow. “There was, without any doubt, a certain amount of covert expectation at Christmas about what the pair of you were up to.”

Antonia was surprised. “You felt that too? I thought I was the only one. I kept telling myself I was over-reacting.”

“Even my mother, who’s the most sensible of women, caught the bug, and started hinting at Christmas engagements and June weddings.”

“It was awful.”

“I guessed it was awful.” He grinned. “I was very sorry for you.”

Watching him, a thought occurred to Antonia. “Was it because of that … that you threw your party?”

“Well, anything was better than having everybody sitting around speculating. Waiting for you and David to come prancing in, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, saying, ‘Listen, listen to our news; we have an announcement to make.” He said this in a ridiculous voice, and Antonia began to laugh, filled with grateful affection.

“Oh, Tom, you are marvellous. You really took the pressure off. You saved my life.”

“Well, I don’t know. I’ve been mending your bicycles and building you tree-houses for long enough. I thought it was time I did something a bit more constructive.”

“You’ve never been anything else. Always. I can’t thank you enough.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

He went on working. “I’ve got to get the worst of this cleared before dark.”

She remembered something. “You’re coming to dinner tonight. Did you know that?”

“Am I?”

“Well, you’ve been invited. You must come. I’ve been plucking pheasants all morning, and if you aren’t there to eat them, I’ll feel the entire effort’s been wasted.”

“In that case,” said Tom, “I’ll be there.”

*   *   *

She stayed with him for a little, helping with his task, and then, as the midwinter afternoon slipped into dusk, she left him, still at it, and set off for home. Walking, she realized that the air had gentled and a soft westerly wind was stirring in the trees. Branches that had been frozen in snow were starting to drip. Overhead, the clouds were parting, revealing glimpses of a pale evening sky the colour of aquamarines. As she came through the gate that stood at the end of the Dixons’ lane, she looked up the hill towards home and saw the lights shining out from the uncurtained windows.

So things were looking up. The power failure was over. And living without David was not going to be impossible after all. She decided that when she got home, she would ring him up and tell him this, putting his mind at rest, and leaving him free to make his plans for Val d’Isère without any guilty backward glances over his shoulder.

And it had started to thaw. Tomorrow it might even be a beautiful day.

And Tom was coming for dinner.

C
OUSIN
D
OROTHY

Mary Burn awoke early on a fine bright morning in May. She was in her own deliciously comfortable bed, in her own flower-sprigged room, and with all her pretty and personal possessions about her. The sun was shining and the birds were singing, but even before she opened her eyes, she knew that something was wrong. The black anxiety, the worry that she had taken to bed with her, had not retreated. It had probably spent the entire night sitting on her pillow.

She turned over, shut her eyes, and longed for Harry to be there; to say, “It’s all right, it doesn’t matter. I’ll see to it.” But Harry wasn’t there, because he was dead. He had died five years ago, and their daughter Vicky was getting married in a week’s time, and Mary was at her wit’s end, because the wedding dress still had not materialized.

She didn’t know what to do, and Harry would have. For, with his going, Mary had lost not only lover and dearest friend, but a competent and kindly husband who dealt with every problem.

Mary, happily content with the day-to-day demands of house, garden, and one small child, had been delighted to let him. Organization, she was the first to admit, was not her strong point. She was useless on committees, and frequently forgot when it was her Sunday for doing the flowers in church. It was Harry who arranged holidays, ordered coal, interviewed headmistresses, coped with horrible things like Income Tax, filled the cars with petrol, and when door handles fell off, was there with a screwdriver to screw them on again.

As well, he handled the problem of Vicky. As a small girl, she had been loving and warm-hearted, a delightful little female companion, happy with her mother, content to make doll’s clothes and bake gingerbread men and dig her own private patch of garden. But, at around age twelve, she had changed. Overnight, it seemed, she was no longer the biddable and responsive little girl, but a prickly adolescent, stubborn and contrary. And everything, from the wrong sort of shoes to bad marks for her homework, was her mother’s fault.

Mary was both hurt and baffled by this hateful metamorphosis. “What on earth is wrong with her?” she whispered furiously to Harry after a particularly painful exchange with Vicky, concluding with a furiously slammed door. “I don’t think she even
likes
me any more. Nobody could behave like that to someone they
liked.
”

“She adores you. She’s growing up. Asserting herself. She’s probably jealous of you because you’re beautiful and young-looking instead of being fat and old.”

“Perhaps I should put on weight and stop using lipstick.”

“Don’t you dare. It’s just a stage. It’ll pass. Daughters are often jealous of their mothers.”

“How do you know? You never had a sister. You’ve only got Cousin Dorothy.”

“Now, don’t start in on her.”

*   *   *

As much as there could be a bone of contention between them, Harry’s cousin Dorothy was it. She was a good ten years older than Mary, and in every way, immensely superior. Unmarried, she had made her career in the Civil Service, attached, for some years, to the Foreign Office. She spoke three languages and worked for some Under-Secretary of State, with whom she was constantly being sent abroad on important missions. When she wasn’t either in Geneva or Brussels or stalking the corridors of power at Whitehall, she lived in a service flat in the neighbourhood of Harrods, where she did her grocery-shopping and had her hair done. Mary had never seen her when her hair was not immaculate. Her clothes were the same, and she always wore very beautiful, expensive shoes, and carried a leather handbag large as a briefcase, bulging, one was certain, with immensely important State Secrets.

“I’m not starting in on her. It’s just that I can’t imagine Dorothy being a tedious teenager, or falling in love, or suffering from any sort of emotion. Admit it, Harry, she is fairly awe-inspiring. She must think I’m the most boring little housewife, because whenever I meet her, I clam up and can’t think of a word to say.”

“Never mind. Your paths don’t often cross.”

“No. But she is your cousin. It would be nice to be friends.”

*   *   *

Vicky was seventeen when Harry died. By then, one would have thought, the teen-age antagonism between mother and daughter would have burnt itself out, but it had simply faded to embers, which, under stress, flamed up again into a blaze of meaningless resentment, and when they should have been able to comfort each other, they seemed to do nothing but quarrel.

It was a terrible time. Coping with grief and loss and all the painful formalities of death had been bad enough, but learning to live without Harry was worse. Over the months, through sheer necessity, Mary taught herself to be practical. Learned to make lists, write important dates on the calendar, use a calculator. By trial and error she finally managed to get the motor mower started. She found out where to put the oil in the car, to interpret the incomprehensible forms sent in by the Inland Revenue, and how to change the plug on the electric kettle.

Vicky, however, was another matter altogether. Vicky was lost and hurt and angry because her father was gone, and Mary understood this and was deeply sympathetic, but still found herself wishing that Vicky did not find it necessary to take this anger out on her mother. Their arguments—usually about something utterly trivial—invariably ended in floods of tears, or doors being slammed in Mary’s face. The problem was that Mary couldn’t reach her. She understood exactly what poor Vicky was going through and yet she couldn’t reach Vicky to comfort her. And she knew that there was nothing she could do, because whatever she said would automatically, inevitably, be wrong.