Presence of Mind (2 page)

Briony, on the other hand, seemed to regard it more as a private source of energy. Increasingly during the last year or so she had gone straight into the sitting-room on her return from school ‘to recharge my batteries from Daddy's picture!' (Lance had been ‘Daddy' to her for sixteen of the eighteen years of her life, but to my continual surprise, despite his very obvious devotion to her, he still made a point of introducing her as his step-daughter.)

On reflection now, it seems only too obvious that my emotions regarding the two people whom I loved more than life itself were in a considerable turmoil long before events started to move with the increased momentum which soon threatened to become a headlong rush to disaster. I didn't, of course, admit, even to myself, that the strength of affection between my husband and daughter was another cause of disquiet. Briony had brought us together in the first place, and it seemed more and more obvious that but for her there would have been no question of our marriage. In the early days, blinded by the force of my own love, I had laughingly confessed that I wasn't sure whether it was she or myself whom Lance had married, but for many years now, as our own relationship remained the formal, mildly affectionate one of comparative strangers, it had not seemed funny at all.

It was not that his was an undemonstrative nature, but that all his spontaneous hugs and kisses were reserved solely for Briony. To myself he was unfailingly gentle, kind and considerate, keeping to the letter his original proposal of a marriage of convenience which was also virtually platonic, for the infrequent times he came to my bed he was almost apologetic about it. Sometimes, lying awake far into the night after he had left me, tears drying on my cheeks, I would think resentfully that he used me as he would a woman of the streets – only in moments of extreme need.

In my own mind, I date that increased tempo of events from the May afternoon when I met Jan Staveley by chance in Rushyford and accepted her invitation to join her for a cup of tea. Jan was the mother of Briony's current boyfriend, Mark, and I liked her the best of our large and rather superficial circle of friends. That afternoon, however, she was not meeting my eyes and I waited with sick expectancy for her to tell me what was troubling her. Perhaps I already guessed.

We talked lightly of nothing in particular until the waitress had laid in front of us the chrome teapot and butter-soaked scones that Jan, with a rueful pat of her rather ample hips, had been unable to resist. Then, diffidently, she enquired, ‘How's Briony? I haven't seen her lately.'

So my guess had been right. I felt my mouth go dry but my voice sounded normal enough as I replied steadily, ‘Working hard, of course. The A-levels are looming ever nearer.'

‘I hope she isn't – overdoing it.'

I forced myself to look across at her, but her eyes were fixed firmly on her plate. ‘What's the matter, Jan?'

She flashed me an apprehensive glance. ‘How do you mean?'

‘You want to tell me something. What is it? Something to do with Briony?'

‘It's only that you said some time ago you were worried about those headaches she was having. Did you ever find out what was causing them?'

I realised I'd been stirring my tea for some minutes and forced myself to lay the spoon down in the saucer. ‘Only in so far as there doesn't seem to
be
any cause.'

‘The doctor couldn't find anything wrong?'

‘No, and he was very thorough. He even arranged for her to go to the hospital for a series of tests and X-rays, but everything proved negative. Her eyesight is perfect and there's no suggestion of any tumour, or epilepsy, or hardening of the arteries supplying the brain, or any of the other horrors I'd hardly dared to think about. All they came up with was “tension” – and I could have told them that myself. She probably is working too hard, as you said, but once the exams are over she'll be all right.'

It was what I had been telling myself for some months and I waited for her reassuring murmur of assent. When it didn't come I persisted, ‘Why do you ask? Has Mark said anything?'

Jan flushed guiltily. ‘Not really. I probably shouldn't have –'

‘Jan, please! I have a right to know. What did he say?'

‘Well, it's just that –' She looked up at me, squared her shoulders and went on more firmly, ‘As a matter of fact he has been a bit worried about her, yes. He says she acts rather – strangely at times.'

The blood began to beat in my head in an insistent rhythmic pounding. ‘How strangely?'

‘He calls it – “going away.” '

‘
Going away
?' My throat ached with the effort of forcing the words out.

Jan hurried on, still not looking at me. ‘He says that sometimes when they're together she suddenly – gives herself a little shake, and she's – different, somehow. Even her voice seems to change, he said.'

So what I had begun to dread was really happening. I could no longer comfort myself that it was imagination: Mark had noticed it too. My mind shuddered away from the terrifying implications as the familiar palliatives came to my rescue. Briony had always been as changeable as quicksilver. When she was quite small, my mother used to remark that she should be an actress when she grew up. ‘I've never seen a face able to change so much from one minute to the next! She might be a completely different person!'

But there was no denying that there had also been occasions over the years when the child had shown an unnervingly accurate precognition. This had always been in regard to very minor instances – the arrival of a letter with a certain item of news, and so on. It was not what she knew but how she knew it which had so alarmed me and probably made me overreact. It was some time now since anything had been said on this subject, but I had the uncomfortable feeling that she probably still had these flashes but had learnt to keep them to herself.

I said with an effort, ‘Can you give me an example?'

‘Well, for as long as we've known her, Briony's always been extremely allergic to shrimps.' I nodded. ‘Last Saturday she suddenly insisted on having a whole plateful of them. Nothing Mark said would change her mind, and what's more she ate the lot without any ill effects. Then, oh, about half an hour later, he said she gave this little shiver again and looked up at him and said “How silly, I must have fallen asleep! Have you ordered lunch?” '

I could feel my heart beating high in my chest with a vehemence that made me feel slightly sick. It was worse, very much worse, than I'd realised. ‘How often has this kind of thing happened?'

‘Only a couple of times. Three at the most, I'd say. Mark came to me because he was afraid of the responsibility of keeping it to himself any longer. I said I'd mention it to you.'

‘Thank you,' I said aridly.

‘He might be exaggerating, of course. Perhaps it wasn't as obvious as it sounds. I mean, no one else seemed to notice anything. She was quite – rational.'

‘Just different.'

‘Yes.' Jan moved uncomfortably. ‘I hope I did the right thing in telling you.'

‘It couldn't have been a coma?'

‘I don't think so. She was talking and everything.'

‘But she didn't remember anything when she “came back”?'

Jan shook her head wordlessly.

‘Oh God!' I said in a whisper.

‘But you say she's been thoroughly examined. There can't be much wrong, surely, or they'd have discovered it.'

‘Perhaps. Jan –' I licked paper-dry lips, tried to marshal some sort of order out of the chaos of my thoughts. ‘Don't say anything to anyone else, will you?'

‘Oh Ann, of
course
not! You
know
–'

‘I mean – actually, I mean especially to Lance.'

She looked surprised but merely answered, ‘I wouldn't think of it.'

‘It's just that – well, you know how he is about her, and if any little thing is wrong he panics immediately. That might be bad for her.'

‘Yes, I see what you mean.'

‘Also, he's working very hard at the moment to complete this collection for the exhibition next month. I don't want him to have an additional worries.'

‘Ann – forgive me for asking, but I was wondering: does Briony remember her real father?'

I stared at her in bewilderment, trying to adjust to what seemed an entirely new topic. ‘I shouldn't think so. She was only six months old when he was killed. Why?'

‘It's just that psychiatrists and people like that always seem to look for an explanation in childhood, don't they, for any kind of – disturbance? I wondered if she was old enough to have missed him.'

I smiled slightly. ‘I doubt it. Any other theories, Mrs Freud?' Jan flushed but persisted doggedly. ‘She might have resented Lance at first? After all, for – what, a year? – there had just been the two of you.'

I shook my head decidedly. ‘No, no, positively and emphatically no. Far from being left out, she was the one Lance noticed in the first place.' I gave a little laugh that didn't quite come off, and bit my lip.

‘I don't remember hearing how you met.'

‘We were on holiday in Scotland, Mother, Briony and I. It was the year after Michael was killed – Briony would have been about eighteen months old.'

‘How terrible to have been left like that with a young baby. You were hardly more than a child yourself.'

I hesitated. ‘Actually, Jan, you might as well know the truth. It hadn't been a happy marriage.' After nineteen years I had actually said it aloud. ‘I knew almost at once it was a mistake,' I went on more slowly. ‘He was gay and handsome and ten years older than I was, but he drank too much even then and it got steadily worse. There were nights when he didn't come home at all and I'd he awake waiting for some hospital to ring. There were probably faults on both sides; I dare say I didn't turn out the way he expected, either. Anyway, when he was killed in that crash – he was drunk, of course – I – well, I grieved for the waste of it all, but – it sounds terrible put into words, but I certainly wasn't heartbroken.'

Jan leant forward and put her square, dimpled little hand gently over mine. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry.'

‘It's all right.' But I found I couldn't go on to tell her about meeting Lance after all. Quite suddenly I had to be alone, away from her sympathetic eyes and gentle questioning. ‘Actually I'll have to go. Briony'll be home any minute. Thanks for the tea.'

I was thankful that she had the tact not to accompany me. Out in the narrow street the sun was still shining, and the fact that it stung my eyes made me realise the strain I'd been under for the last half hour. I almost ran to the car park, fumbling in my bag for the keys. The streets were filling now with newly-released school children, the girls swinging their panama hats, their dresses splashes of colour against the mellow stone, and the boys teetering slowly alongside on their bicycles. I couldn't see Briony among them. I inched the car into the stream of traffic clogging the narrow roads and made my way slowly up out of the busy little market town into the rolling peace of the Suffolk countryside.

In the driving mirror my cheeks looked flushed and the little network of fine lines I'd only recently noticed at the corners of my eyes seemed more apparent. Impatiently I wound down the window and let the welcome breeze lift my hair. Friday afternoon; the weekend lay ahead. No doubt the usual crowd would converge on us on Sunday.

Subconsciously my foot pressed the accelerator and the little car leapt forward, startling a pheasant which rose from the side of the road in an extravagant display of colour. How lovely everything was: the pastel colours of the farmhouses, sky blue, apricot and yellow, the clumps of trees straight from a Constable landscape. If only I were free to revel in it, to enjoy it all as it should be enjoyed, without that eternal rider ‘if only'. If only Lance loved me; if only Briony could outgrow this strangeness; if only we could sometimes be alone together without having to fill the house with people.

The painted white gates of Fairfield Lodge came into sight and I turned into them, thankful to escape from my disquieting thoughts. The old house looked at its most beautiful in the afternoon sunshine and as always my heart lifted at the sight of it. The garage doors stood open and a bicycle leaned drunkenly against the wall. Briony was home. I pushed open the front door and the sunshine followed me inside. At the end of the hall the kitchen door opened and Mrs Rose appeared.

‘The kettle's on, Mrs Tenby, if you're ready for your tea.'

‘I've just had some, thanks. Have you taken my husband his?'

‘Not yet; I'm getting it now.'

‘Let me know when it's ready and I'll take it myself. Is Miss Briony upstairs?'

‘I think she went into the sitting-room, ma'am.'

My heart sank, and I pushed the door open. Sure enough, Briony had flung herself on to the sofa and was leaning back gazing up at the painting over the mantelpiece. Resentfully I stood in the doorway and let my own eyes be drawn by the magnetism of it. The scene was an enchanted garden, full of birds and spring flowers, an Arcadian paradise. Beneath a cherry tree laden with blossom two lovers stood hand in hand, eternally young. But beyond the garden walls winter had come. The skies were hard and grey, the trees skeletal in their nakedness and, most horrible of all, a group of bent, aged figures, gaunt-eyed and grey-haired gazed with bitter longing at the inaccessible promise of the garden.

As always a shiver snaked down my spine and I must have made some movement because Briony turned, her face still blank with the intensity of her absorption. Then she smiled and sat up. ‘Hello, I didn't hear the car.'

I had driven right past the window; she should have heard it. I said lightly, ‘I presume you haven't been in long? Rushyford's still moving with your fellow scholars.'