Presence of Mind (4 page)

I said severely, ‘
Mr
Pomfrett mightn't let him. And don't be disrespectful about your parents' friends!'

‘Well really Mother she is a bit heavy round the hips. And even if she has got gorgeous features and wonderful colouring, she hasn't much about her, has she? She reminds me of a beautiful doll. Come to think of it, Mr's a bit too good to be true, too, with those perfect teeth and all that dark hair. They make what Granny used to call a striking pair!'

My mind flickered to Simon Pomfrett, aptly summed up, I had to admit, by my daughter.

‘Their children are much more human,' she continued.

‘Lindsay's hair is just fair, not that rich gold, and Roger's dark without being blue-black – kind of watered down and not so perfect. I suppose they'll be coming tomorrow. They can make up a foursome with Mark and me.'

Belatedly I remembered the extra guests Lance had invited. ‘Do you know any girls at school called Forrest? Twins, I think.'

‘Rachel and Rebecca? Yes, they're new this term.'

‘Daddy's invited them and their family tomorrow too.'

‘Well, they're pleasant enough, but they'll foul up the tennis four. It's going to be quite a crowd, isn't it? I suppose the Pembertons will be here too?'

‘Probably.'

‘You know, I think old Edgar rather fancies you!'

‘Briony!'

‘Well, I do! He's always watching you. And heaven knows he can't have much of a life with her!'

‘Now really –' I began helplessly, and she gave a bubble of unrepentant laughter.

‘Don't try to look shocked, Mother. You know quite well what I mean! I can't stand that woman and I bet you can't, either. Why we have to suffer her every weekend, just so Daddy can play host to the district, I don't know.'

‘That's quite enough,' I said firmly, standing up.

She finished her coffee. ‘Well, I do get a bit sick of these social occasions. Once or twice would be fine, but not
every
weekend. We never carried on like this when Granny was alive.'

No, I thought reflectively, while Mother was still here we weren't such a compact unit. Once she'd gone we shrank to a normal two-generation family with its increased intimacy, and Lance didn't want that. There could be no other explanation for his careful arranging of Saturday morning coaching and open house every Sunday. And without Briony to play tennis this afternoon, he would rapidly retreat to the studio. Did I really bore him that much?

‘Oh well, I'd better do an hour's German before Mark comes.'

I made some automatic reply as she left the room, but memories of my meeting with Lance jolted yesterday by Jan's questioning, were flooding back into my mind and this time I let them come: the quiet little hotel out among the heather, the blue smudge of the hills, the lochs and the seabirds and the wild, singing loneliness.

It struck me suddenly that even though she had been so tiny, Scotland had apparently made a deep impression on Briony, too – perhaps because we had met Lance there. I couldn't think of any other explanation for her passionate interest in all things Scottish, the books she collected on its history, the formation of ancient clans and tartans, even the classics by Scott and Stevenson which I myself had always found heavy. And yet there had been that curious reaction earlier this year when, thinking to please her, I'd suggested we might go back for a holiday. ‘No!' she'd exclaimed breathlessly. ‘Please don't make me! I can't!'

I had stared at her with complete incomprehension. ‘But darling, I thought you'd love it! Why ever don't you want to go?'

‘I just don't.' She'd calmed down when she realised I was not insisting, and then she added, almost to herself, ‘Anyway, it isn't time yet.'

Once again I helplessly abandoned the attempt to understand my daughter and my mind returned to that first holiday. I had noticed Lance at once, solitary and withdrawn across the dining-room, and as the days passed I found myself looking out for him, attempting a shy smile which was never reciprocated, watching wistfully from the window as he strode out, always alone, across the moors.

Just as I had resigned myself to never coming to his notice, Briony took matters into her own hands. Being still at the messy stage she didn't eat with the rest of the guests, and one evening I was later than usual giving her her tea. Our table was near the door of the dining-room, and Lance came through the hall. Immediately a wide smile spread over her face and she shouted gleefully, ‘Dad-dad!'

I still don't know where she had learnt the word. Lance turned, of course, and I was covered with confusion, murmuring incoherent apologies. I needn't have bothered. He came slowly into the room and stood staring down at her and as I watched anxiously, his face, so bleak and withdrawn, seemed to soften and become vulnerable again. And that was it. Love at first sight, for both of them.

With shaking hands, my thoughts still rooted in the past, I began to stack the breakfast plates. From then on, he just wanted to be with her. It was as simple as that. I was accepted tacitly as a necessary appendage, someone to help manoeuvre the pushchair over the uneven ground, someone to cope when she succumbed to hiccups. And at the end of the fortnight he couldn't let her go.

After dinner that last evening he asked me to go for a walk. It was the first time that Briony hadn't been with us. He was very calm and matter-of-fact. He said we had both lost the only person who would ever mean anything to us – I didn't contradict him – but that it was no reason why we should have to spend the rest of our lives alone. He said he didn't like to think of me having all the responsibility of looking after Briony and Mother as well. (She was a semi-invalid even then.) He was quite frank about not having intended to marry, but he now found he was fond of children, and Briony obviously needed a father. For the rest, he had good prospects and could offer me a pleasant home, together with the staff to run it smoothly and without effort. I was left with the impression that all that was required of me in return was to run the house efficiently and be a pleasant hostess to his friends.

I didn't, of course, realise then who he was, though he was already well-known in art circles. It was all very civilised and reasonable and might indeed have been as convenient as he imagined but for one factor. I could hardly explain that my own feelings for Michael had simply been schoolgirl infatuation and that, as I knew even then, Lance himself was to be the great love of my life. By the same token, I could not summon up the courage to ask him about the girl he had loved and lost, and he never mentioned her again.

I came back to the present with the awareness of slow tears of self-pity brimming in my eyes and impatiently pulled myself together. However it had come about, I was married to the man I loved. I had a great deal for which to be thankful.

Mark called for Briony about eleven o'clock and I spent the rest of the morning with Mrs Rose discussing catering arrangements for the next day. Lance and I had a light lunch under the sun umbrella on the terrace. Beyond, the garden stretched freshly green and immaculate. The air was full of birdsong and on the fruit trees at the end of the garden the last of the blossom still clung, curly brown and dry, between the tender new leaves.

Unable to let well alone, I said out of the blue, ‘Has Briony mentioned that she's thinking of taking up painting?'

I wasn't sure if I had imagined his moment of complete immobility. He said carefully, ‘No, she hasn't. When did she reach that momentous decision?'

‘Yesterday, I believe. Under the influence of
Eternal Spring.
'

He moistened his lips. ‘But she's all geared towards languages now.'

‘For the exams, yes, but only because she had to choose something. She's never had any idea what she wanted to do. Perhaps all your early tuition's paid off after all. Remember trailing her round the galleries when she could scarcely walk, and the inevitable paintbox in her Christmas stocking?'

He smiled slightly but his face looked strained. ‘I don't think she ever even opened them. I found three or four of them once, at the back of the toy cupboard, still looking brand new. Of course, there was no real reason to think she'd be interested. It's not as though it could be hereditary, after all.' The old, inexplicable insistence on no blood ties.

‘Environment, then,' I suggested lightly. ‘I presume you wouldn't object if she was serious about it?'

‘Object? I couldn't be more delighted, but it would mean damned hard work, coming to it cold as it were.'

‘Paul Beddowes did.'

‘True.'

‘Would you teach her yourself?'

He hesitated. ‘A little, perhaps, but someone less involved would probably be better for her. Anyway, we mustn't get too carried away with all this. If it was just a casual remark she may have forgotten all about it.'

I looked at him quickly, but there seemed to be no hidden meaning in his suggestion of her forgetfulness. Perhaps, if he'd noticed it at all, he merely accepted it as a normal part of her character. And perhaps it was.

I said abruptly, ‘I had tea with Jan in Rushyford yesterday. She was asking how we first met. It was strange, thinking back over it all.'

His face softened. ‘Briony in her high chair, with jam all over her face!'

Not a word about me and our coolly rational agreement.

Mrs Rose was already hovering to collect the dishes. Her Saturday afternoons were free and she usually managed to catch the two o'clock bus from the stop a hundred yards down the road. Reluctantly, since prolonging the conversation would be of no avail, I nodded to her to begin to clear. Lance stood up and stretched. ‘Well, back to work. See you later.' And he strolled down the steps and across the grass to the studio.

I was hot and sticky in my blouse and skirt and went upstairs to change into a cotton sundress. A new library book lay on the bedside table. I picked it up, found my dark glasses and went back outside.

Dick Gifford had set up a couple of deck chairs on the lawn before he went home at lunch time. I carried one of them down the shallow steps of the sunken rose garden. Saturday afternoon and alone as usual. I lay back and closed my eyes, hopeful of reclaiming some of the previous night's lost sleep, but almost at once the click of the side gate roused me. Mrs Rose had already left and the gardeners had finished work for the weekend.

I sat up, shading my eyes, in time to see Edgar Pemberton come round the corner of the terrace wall. He raised a hand when he saw me and started to come over. ‘I think he rather fancies you' had vouchsafed my disrespectful daughter. For the first time I considered her words, weighing them in my mind as he approached. I had to concede it was possible.

Edgar and Cynthia lived further out along the Stowmarket road and he frequently dropped in as he was passing with some fruit he had happened to see at a green-grocer's, with an art catalogue that might interest Lance, or just for a cup of tea and a chat. As Briony had shrewdly remarked, there was not much comfort for him at home, and I had perhaps gone out of my way to make him welcome at the Lodge. If that had been the impetus for his revised assessment of me, I should have to be careful. But I
liked
Edgar, I thought with a hint of defiance. His kind, unassuming friendliness did a great deal to compensate for his wife's barbed witticisms.

‘Not disturbing you, am I?' he called as he came up.

‘No, I'm delighted to have someone to talk to! Bring that other chair and join me for a while.'

I noticed that he was carrying a shallow wooden seed box and he set it on the ground between us while he put up the deck chair. ‘I brought you some of those cuttings you said you'd like.'

‘Oh, bless you! I'd forgotten about them. Thank you.'

‘Briony out?'

‘Yes, she and Mark are walking to Marshford, if you please, to a pop concert or something.'

‘It seems quite a thing with those two.'

‘For the moment, yes.'

‘And no doubt Leonardo's closeted in his studio?'

I smiled. ‘Time and exhibitions wait for no man.'

‘You must spend a lot of time by yourself. Doesn't it worry you?'

‘Unfortunately five-day weeks and overtime bans don't apply to artists. I knew that when I married him, so I can't complain.'

‘All the same, Cynthia'd never put up with it.' He lay back in the chair and closed his eyes. ‘Gosh, this is quite a sun-trap, isn't it?'

Musingly I looked across at him. There were beads of perspiration on his forehead and the dark hair was definitely receding. His neck and jawline had thickened over the years and the darkness of his jowls unfairly made him appear in need of a shave. Poor Edgar, he had not worn as well as Lance and Cynthia would have resented his unguarded submission to my scrutiny. For myself, I found it oddly touching. I settled back again and closed my eyes, content to have his undemanding company. When I opened them again some time later, it was to find him in his turn studying me and, with Briony's words still fresh in my mind, my heart gave an awkward little jerk. He smiled as our eyes met but made no attempt to look away, and the resulting long-held glance somehow assumed an added importance. To end what was in danger of becoming embarrassing – Edgar, for goodness sake! – I said lazily, ‘I'm just trying to work up enough energy to go in search of lemonade.'

‘Shall I call Mrs Rose for you?'

“No good, I'm afraid, it's her afternoon off. There's no help for it, I'll have to get it myself.'

‘Can't I see to it?'

‘No, you don't know where everything is. Don't encourage me to be so idle!' I stood up and pulled down my sundress. The cotton was sticking to the small of my back and I could feel my hair curling closely in the nape of my neck.

‘At least I'll come and carry it out for you. What about Lance? Will he join us?'