The Children's Hour (9 page)

They all know, however, that it will be exactly, reassuringly, as it always is: first the long, rambling walk to the sea and games on the beach, then home again for tea in the drawing-room, and finally the latest chapter of the current book. This is the time of quiet, the unravelling of the long day's cares; it is the children's hour.

‘Hello. Sorry, who . . .? Oh,
Jack
! Sorry, I've just got in from a walk. How are you?' Clutching the telephone receiver, Lyddie dropped her coat on a kitchen chair and went through into the long room so as to perch on the end of the table. ‘And how is my god-daughter?'

‘Your god-daughter is a wild child,' answered her cousin, ‘and if she wishes to live to see her second birthday she'll need to mend her ways. How are things in Truro?'

‘Fine.' Lyddie chuckled. ‘Poor Flora. What's she been up to now?'

‘Poor
Flora
!' echoed Jack indignantly. ‘What about us? Hannah and I are worn to a ravelling, Tobes is bullied and terrorized and you say “Poor Flora”! So when are you coming to see us?'

‘Oh, Jack, I'd love to,' replied Lyddie longingly.

She visualized the old stone house in Dorset, set in the parklands of the school grounds, with the eight small boys who lived with Hannah and Jack for the first year of their
prep-school life. Her cousin's wife was quick, capable, warm-hearted, a perfect foil for Jack's unflappable, rock-like strength, and the boys adored both of them equally. Four-year-old Toby had a ready-made family of elder brothers who spoiled Flora shockingly. A few days with Jack and Hannah was a tonic that restored Lyddie whenever she was low: a sanctuary where she could be herself.

‘Half-term next week,' offered Jack temptingly. ‘The boys will be gone – the Lord be praised – and your god-daughter would love to see you.'

‘Oh, it would be heavenly.' Lyddie calculated rapidly. ‘Perhaps just for one night. I'll check with Liam. It would be great to see you. It's sweet of you to offer when you're probably both knackered.'

‘Well,' Jack's voice was teasing, ‘to be honest, it's the Bosun we really want to see but we know that he can't come without you. Seriously, though, how are the Aunts? Have you seen them?'

‘Not since Aunt Georgie arrived.' Lyddie decided to overlook the insult. ‘We've had speaks and Aunt Mina seemed OK. It was obvious that she had an audience and couldn't say too much but she sounded quite jolly. I'm hoping to go over on Sunday for an hour or two.'

‘We were wondering whether to dash down to see them during half-term.' He sounded cautious. ‘Would they be up to it, d'you think?'

‘I think they'd love it. Come on, Jack! You know they would. You and Han and the kids are their favourite people.'

‘You underestimate yourself,' he answered gently, ‘but thanks. Yes, I know that Mina and Nest are always pleased to see us but I'm not too certain about Aunt Georgie. If she's getting a bit . . . well, a few sandwiches short of a picnic, it could be a bit tricky. I don't want to make problems for Aunt
Mina. Four extra people to entertain and Flora, bless her heart, is a real handful at the moment.'

‘They'll manage,' promised Lyddie confidently. ‘So when were you thinking of going?'

‘Well, that's why I've phoned. If you can manage a visit we'll fit it round that. I know you have deadlines to keep.'

‘Yes, I do,' said Lyddie gratefully. ‘Look, I need to check with my calendar and with Liam and I'll get back to you this evening. Will that do?'

‘Great,' he said. ‘We'll wait to hear from you. Hannah will be really pleased at the thought of some female company apart from Flora.'

‘Give them a hug from me,' said Lyddie, ‘and thanks, Jack. I'd love it.'

‘Speaks later, then,' he said – and hung up.

Lyddie replaced the receiver more slowly. It was odd – and very slightly worrying: that fleeting image of the old stone house and the releasing, tempting reminder that, there, she was able to be herself. It implied a lack of honesty, of strain, in her life here in Truro with Liam. She picked up her coat, her eyes thoughtful, allowing herself to admit the element of fear in her relationship with her husband. Oh, not a physical fear, no, but a fear of losing him if she should confront him too openly with her own needs: the need to be part of his whole life and her growing longing for his child. Each tentative approach was cleverly fielded with a smile, a shrug, a caress, whilst she struggled to find a fingerhold or weakness in his smooth resistance to her cautious advances. Yet why should she be cautious? Why not speak out honestly? What should prevent her from expressing these reasonable, natural desires? She knew the answer even whilst she instinctively refused to face it: Liam did not require her to be part of his whole life, nor was starting a
family on his agenda. His was the strength of those who withhold some vital part of themselves, who can withdraw love at will, and some atavistic instinct warned her against the risk of making demands.

Lyddie shivered at the thought of losing him, remembering how James had left her because he was unable to commit to a serious relationship. Liam, at least, had been very ready to marry her – the rest would surely follow. She must be patient a little longer.

Georgie's arrival had done very little to assuage Nest's fears; rather, her sister's presence only increased her anxiety. It was clear, after a few days, that Georgie was walking a narrow path between normality and instability. She refused the role of guest with a confidence that was almost offensive, behaving as if they were still all young together and she, as eldest, had the most authority. Meals were altered – ‘Surely you eat more than cereal for breakfast?' – their quiet evenings disrupted – ‘Time for my soap. Daren't miss an episode or I simply shan't know where I am. You don't mind if I switch the television on, do you?' – and the plans for each day were dictated by her particular needs.

‘Barnstaple today,' she'd say at breakfast, spooning up her porridge and looking to see whether Mina was ready with the scrambled eggs. ‘I need some wool and something new to read. Is the toast burning? You know I've always hated burned toast.'

‘I shall kill her,' vowed Nest after a particularly trying day. Georgie had retired early with a headache and she and Mina were clearing up after supper. ‘My sympathies, I have to say, are now utterly with Helena and Rupert. Mind you, I shouldn't think the home will keep her for more than a
week. They'll probably expel her . . .
Can
you be expelled from a nursing home?'

‘Not at those fees,' said Mina cynically. ‘The higher the fees the greater the tolerance, that's my experience.'

‘Then they'll need to be very high indeed,' said Nest grimly. ‘Of course, she was always a bossyboots, wasn't she? But even so . . .'

‘She can't bear to lose face,' explained Mina. ‘Think how humiliating it is for her to be bundled off to us whilst Helena sells up her flat and arranges for her to be shipped off to a home. The powerlessness, for someone as control-minded as Georgie, must be terrible.'

‘Given that she's treating you rather like a servant I think you're very noble.' Nest was almost irritated by Mina's compassion. ‘After all, this
is
your house. Mama left it to you. Georgie's behaving as if we've all slipped back fifty years.'

‘I think that's exactly what she's done. I expect—'

The door opened, very slowly and silently, and Georgie stood looking at them. Her sisters stared at her, startled into immobility, each wondering how long she'd been there, trying to remember what they'd said. Even the dogs remained on their beds, ears cocked and alert. Georgie was the first to speak.

‘I've come for a glass of water,' she said.

She frowned a little, as if trying to get her bearings, and came further into the kitchen. Her silvery white hair was rumpled into a fluffy crown and her eyes were vacant, staring sightlessly. The long dressing-gown and high-necked night-gown lent a strangely nightmare quality – there was nothing cosy about the scene – and Nest swallowed nervously.

‘I thought I'd given you one.' Mina's voice was calm. ‘Never mind. Go back to bed and I'll bring it up. Would you like a hot drink?'

Georgie's face crumpled a little, her eyes filled with tears and she looked quite unbearably sad but, before either of her sisters could speak, her expression changed again, smoothing into an odd, listening look, distant and unearthly, as if she could hear a conversation that neither of them could detect.

‘Where's Mama?' she asked plaintively. Her glance strayed between the two of them, puzzled, and Mina took her arm.

‘Not here,' she said. ‘Not at the moment. You must go back to bed. I'll come with you.'

They went away together, Georgie allowing herself to be led as though she were a child. Nest remained quite still, shocked, almost frightened, until Mina returned and the dogs scampered to greet her.

‘Is she OK?' Nest asked fearfully.

‘I think so.' Mina looked shaken, stooping to caress her darlings as much for her own comfort as theirs. ‘I think she's confused about exactly where she is. For a moment she thought that I was Mama.'

‘You look like her,' said Nest. ‘We all do, it's quite uncanny, but you most of all, I think. Oh, Mina, I wondered if she might be sleep-walking to begin with. She looked almost mad.'

Mina touched her arm comfortingly but looked pre-occupied. ‘Well, Helena warned me that she had these moments,' she said, ‘but I didn't imagine them quite like that.'

‘It was creepy.' Nest shivered. ‘You don't think she might get up again and wander about?'

‘I hope not,' answered Mina anxiously. ‘I wouldn't dare to lock her in, even if I had a key. She could be perfectly normal five minutes from now and then think how embarrassing it would be.'

‘Anyway, she might need to go to the loo.'

They stared at each other nervously, each quite suddenly on the point of hysterical laughter, and Mina took a deep breath.

‘Get off to bed,' she said. ‘I'll listen out for her while I undress. And don't lie awake worrying. Take a sleeping tablet. It's your physio day tomorrow and you need to be as relaxed as possible.'

‘I might do that.'

They embraced and Nest wheeled herself away to her bedroom. Alone, preparing for bed, she found herself listening for movement, for voices; fear making her clumsy and slow. In bed, waiting for the tablet to take effect, dreams and memories merged into jumbled, confusing patterns until, at last, she slept.

‘I know a secret', says Georgie importantly. The afternoon is hot but tall beeches crowd about the lawn, giving shelter from gales and sun alike, and it is cool and shady in the corner where Timmie and Nest are giving a tea-party for their toys.

‘Bet you don't.' Eleven-year-old Josie turns cartwheels across the mossy grass, the skirt of her cotton gingham frock falling over her ears.

The Tinies draw closer together, envious of Josie's indifference. Sometimes Georgie's secrets are frightening – and they remember how she showed them the bodies of three dead baby birds in a nest.

‘It's a lesson,' Georgie told them, relishing their horror, ‘to teach you not to disturb the birds by climbing the trees in spring. Papa said so. But don't tell anyone and you won't get into trouble. It's a secret.'

Now, Timmie's lips tremble but he presses them firmly into a smile and holds Nest's hand – for she is youngest. The
dolls, a knitted rabbit and two teddy bears, propped about the picnic table, are forgotten as they draw closer together, gazing at Georgie as she leans towards them.

‘There's going to be a war,' she says.

They stare at her blankly, uncomprehending, almost relieved.

‘What is war?' asks Timmie, who is six now. ‘What does it mean?'

Before she can answer, Mina comes out of the house calling to the children to come in for tea.

‘Don't say anything,' says Georgie to them quickly. ‘It's a secret. Papa will be cross.'

But Timmie is beginning to learn that Georgie cheats, binding them by threats that are groundless, and he feels instinctively a need to protect Nest from horrors such as the ghastly corpses of the dead fledgelings.

‘But what is it?' he asks in a louder voice, feeling brave now that Mina is in earshot. ‘What is war?'

Georgie turns to face Mina, trying to appear nonchalant, hoping Mina has not heard Timmie's question, but Timmie's anxious childish treble is high and clear and it carries over the hushed garden. Mina is angry – which, oddly, frightens Timmie even more – and she and Georgie glare at each other across the pathetic remains of the little tea-party.

‘Mama told you not to tell them,' she says. ‘She told all of us,' and her voice is low and furious.

Georgie shrugs, pretending indifference, but she looks uncomfortable. Nest, upset by Mina's uncharacteristic rage, begins to cry so that Mina is distracted and Georgie is able to slip quickly away.

‘But what is war?' Timmie is genuinely frightened now, sensing something serious, much worse, perhaps, than the baby birds.

‘It won't happen here.' Mina is comforting Nest, pretending to give the brown knitted rabbit some milk, distracting her. Nest's tears dry upon her cheeks as she laughs, taking the cup so as to feed the rabbit herself, and Mina looks up at Timmie. ‘It's nothing to do with here. It's to do with countries fighting over something they both want. Their rulers are arguing about land, and then fighting starts and everyone takes sides, d'you see?'

‘I think so.' He frowns. ‘Like Josie and Henrietta and the tennis shoes. Both wanting them but not really knowing whose they were.'

Mina smiles at him. ‘Just like that only bigger. But nothing will happen here except that we shan't see Papa so much. We shall stay here until we see how things go but Papa will have to stay in London. He's needed there. He won't be actually in danger but the thing about war is that lots of people become involved in it, even if they aren't doing the fighting.'