The Hardie Inheritance (11 page)

‘Where's Trish?' she asked, to start the conversation on a safe subject.

‘I asked Alan to take her to the Zoo. I was afraid she might find our day too tiring. I do take her to look at pictures quite often, in the National Gallery mostly, but I only let her look at a few each time, so that it stays a treat. Now, let's find a taxi. Private shows before lunch, I thought, and the Tate afterwards.'

‘Whatever you say.'

It was an educational morning. There was not a great deal of sculpture to be seen in the galleries clustered around Bond Street, and what there was proved to be small in scale. But it was interesting to discover how many modern figurative paintings were sculptural in style, depicting limbs so thick and solid that they might have been carved from stone. Even more interesting were the abstract paintings in which she could often recognize the same sense of movement that she was trying to create herself.

Most interesting of all, however, was the fact that all the gallery owners knew Ellis by name. When he introduced Grace to them, and mentioned her work, it was with the authority of a man who was already acquainted with most of the artists whose work was on show. He was in the swim of London's art
world; and was offering her the opportunity to step into the current beside him.

Until a few weeks ago Grace would have said that she wanted nothing better than to continue in a way of life which most people would consider to be dull and solitary – and she was still not discontented with it. But Andy and Rupert and Ellis himself had converged on Greystones to jolt her out of a routine which for fourteen years had been pleasurable but unstimulating. They had opened the doors of her imagination on to different worlds – France, Castlemere and London – preparing her for the possibility of stepping out of her narrow rut.

In the excitement of today's new experience she was even able to forget for a little while the personal disaster which would shatter her existing routine whether she liked it or not. A meal in a restaurant was one of her rarest treats and her eyes were as bright as a child's as she pointed to her choice of hors d'oeuvres from the dishes which a waiter revolved on a trolley. Ellis's eyes were bright as well; but with amusement.

‘This is only a first course,' he warned her. ‘There'll be something more substantial to come.'

‘Oh!' Aghast at what must seem to be her greed, she put her hand up to her mouth. ‘What a real provincial you must think me!'

‘What I think is that you mustn't ever change,' he said. ‘These shapes that you're carving and modelling emerge from your own personality. It would be a mistake, in my opinion, for you to turn yourself into a metropolitan person. If you marry me, I hope you'll go on living in exactly the same way as before, boiler suit and all. I can handle any dealings with these people – gallery owners and critics – for you, to build up your reputation and get a bit of money. It's something I'd very much like to do. So that I could feel I was putting something back in return for what Trish was getting. Have you thought any more about it, Grace? Will you take the plunge and marry me?'

Grace looked up from her overloaded plate and stared into her companion's eyes. He was still little more than a stranger, but did that matter when he was not expecting intimacy? He was sympathetic and considerate, sharing many of her own interests with an enthusiasm which excited her. He was a man of taste, sophisticated but not snobbish – and he was more competent to manage business affairs than any of the present occupants of Greystones. She liked him; and she liked his daughter.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘I would be very happy to marry you.'

It was all over. On a cold Sunday morning in March 1933, Mrs Hardie collapsed at last into a chair in the kitchen, as exhausted as though she, and not her daughter, had spent the night in labour. Ellis was sitting with his wife whilst the midwife looked after the newly-born little boy. Mrs Hardie had made tea for them all, and gave Philip a tray to carry upstairs.

Her youngest son, Jay, who was spending the weekend at Greystones, came to join her, shivering but elegant in a silk dressing gown.

‘Gracious, what a commotion!'

‘I thought you were managing to sleep all through it.'

‘Faint hope. It's just that I didn't see much point in adding to the confusion by appearing. No one is likely to ask me to portray a woman giving birth on the London stage, thank God. All well?'

‘Yes. A dear little boy. Nine pounds.'

‘Is that good or bad?'

‘It's heavy, especially for a boy.'

‘And especially for a baby who's supposed to be premature?'

Mrs Hardie refrained from making any comment. On the day when Grace returned from London to announce that she had accepted Ellis's proposal, she had confessed that she was already pregnant, but naturally enough had asked that the fact should be kept secret.

‘Is Ellis up with her now?' Jay asked.

‘Yes. She's very tired. Most women are much younger when they have their first babies, of course. But she'll be all right. Would you like a cup of tea?'

‘Thanks.' But instead of enjoying it peacefully, Jay began to pace around the kitchen. ‘How well did Grace know Ellis before they got married, Mother? The wedding was arranged in such a rush, while I was on tour, that I didn't have a chance to say anything.'

‘Say anything about what, dear?'

‘Well, it's just that … well, he and I have a good many friends in common.'

‘I'm glad to hear it.'

‘No, I mean … I didn't actually know him before I met him here, but I knew his name, and his friends.'

‘So you just said.' What was it that Jay was trying to explain? As an actor he was accustomed to declaim the lines written for him fluently, but seemed to be having trouble in expressing his own thoughts. She waited patiently.

‘I wouldn't have thought he was the sort of man to fall in love with Grace. In fact, I wouldn't have expected him to want to get married at all.'

‘Well, perhaps they didn't fall in love in the way that two younger people might have done.' She paused for a moment, remembering the passion which had driven her at the age of eighteen to defy her family and run away from home without even being sure that the man she loved wanted to marry her. Grace had made no pretence of feeling anything like that. Indeed, she had retained the use of the bedroom in the tower which had been hers ever since the house was built, and had provided her husband with a room of his own some distance away. ‘It's more of an affectionate friendship. Companionship. They like talking to each other. They admire each other's work.'

‘You don't have to marry in order to chat. Still, I suppose it's a good sort of camouflage. As long as Grace realizes–'

‘Camouflage? What does that mean? I don't understand what you're getting at, dear.' She would have pressed further, but at that moment there was an interruption. Trish came running into the kitchen.

‘Grandmother, the baby's cold.'

‘What do you mean, darling?'

‘I thought I heard a kitten mewing, but it was the new baby crying. I went into the room just to have a peep. The window's open and the room's freezing cold and the baby hasn't got any clothes on.'

Almost unable to believe her ears, Mrs Hardie stood up so abruptly that her chair toppled backwards. Leaving Jay to pick it up, she hurried upstairs. She could hear Trish running behind her, but did not wait for the little girl to keep up.

Grace had moved into a guest bedroom in the last two months of her pregnancy, when she began to find the spiral staircase of the tower too steep and narrow. Mrs Hardie glanced quickly through the open door as she passed. The new mother, looking pale and tired, was lying in bed with her eyes closed, while Ellis, at the side of the bed, held her hand. The midwife was in a corner of the room, rolling stained sheets into a bundle.

The cradle which had been prepared for the baby was in the dressing room next door. Trish's story proved to be true. The window was indeed open, allowing the cold March wind to puff at the curtains. And the baby, no longer crying, lay naked, his hands and feet purple and his face a bluish white.

In a single gesture Mrs Hardie covered the baby with the blankets which had been put on a chair and picked him up, holding him close to her body so that some of her own warmth might pass into him. ‘Nurse!' she shouted as with her one free hand she closed each window in turn, although as a rule she never raised her voice. More quietly, she said, ‘Trish, tell the nurse to come here at once.'

The midwife came in response to Trish's message, with a lack of haste which made Mrs Hardie breathless with indignation.

‘Surely you didn't just
forget
about him! What do you mean by leaving him to catch his death of cold like that? Your first duty–'

The nurse put up a hand to check Mrs Hardie's anger. ‘Have
you looked at him, madam?' she asked. She had the slow, soft voice of a countrywoman; a voice which earlier had inspired confidence. And the doctor had been warm in his recommendation. It was impossible to understand why she should suddenly have become either inefficient or heartless.

‘Of course I've looked at him. What are you talking about? Get him well wrapped up at once.'

‘Have you
really
looked at him, though?' She reached out to loosen the blankets and free one of the baby's hands. ‘Look at the fingers: the extra joint. And the shape of the eyes. It's a mongol baby.'

Mrs Hardie laid her grandson back in the cradle, tucking the covers tightly around him as she leaned over to stare at his face. The eyes were not round, but slanting and almond shaped. She felt a moment of sick disappointment, followed by distress at the thought of breaking the news to Grace. But none of this was any excuse for failing to take proper care of a new-born child.

‘The mother's, what, thirty-five, thirty-six?' continued the nurse. ‘Always a risk, it is, leaving a first baby so late. It's for the best, just letting nature take its course.'

‘This isn't nature taking its course. What you're trying to do is to murder a human being. You've no right to take such a decision on yourself.' Mrs Hardie spoke with a passion which welled from deep in her heart. Her own youngest child, Felix, had been discovered to have brain damage, and had died at the age of twenty-five without ever really leaving childhood, but it was not Felix that she thought of now. Many years ago her first baby, born prematurely in a Chinese village, had been snatched from her while she was unable to move by an ignorant woman who took it for granted that she would not wish a female child to live. She had never forgotten the grief she felt then, and had no intention of allowing her only other daughter to suffer in the same way.

‘With respect, madam, you can't expect a new mother to make such a choice when she's tired and emotional. And she
can't know what it's like to see such a child grow into an adult which still has to be treated as a baby.'

‘Wrap him up!' ordered Mrs Hardie. ‘And then get the fire going again. I'll fetch hot water bottles.' As she turned to hurry from the room she was startled to see that Trish was still standing there. Had she overheard the conversation? Well, there was no time to think about that for the moment. There was too much to be done.

Later in the day she discovered the answer to her question.

‘Grandmother,' said Trish, painstakingly scraping out the bowl which had held a gingerbread mixture, and sucking the spoon. ‘What does mongol mean?'

Mrs Hardie's face paled with shock. ‘Did you hear –? Oh, Trish dearest, the midwife shouldn't have used that word, and you shouldn't have been listening. I want you to promise me now that you'll never use the word to anyone again. Not to me, not to Grace or Ellis, not to anyone. Will you promise?'

‘Yes,' said Trish. ‘But I still don't know what it means.'

‘Come and sit on my lap for a moment. Well, it means that the baby will never be clever.'

‘Can't we change him for another one if he's not good enough?'

‘No, of course not. It's not like one of the clay animals that you make and then throw away. And not being clever isn't important. He'll be a smiling, loving little boy. You're his big sister, and he'll give you lots of hugs and kisses. But he won't be good at looking after himself. When he's nearly seven, like you are now, he'll still need to be helped with getting dressed, and he won't be able to read like you can. That sort of thing. Now then, Trish, I've answered your question, but you have to forget what I've told you. Every tiny baby needs to be looked after all the time, so we shall all take care of this one. The only difference is that the caring will have to last a little longer than usual, that's all.'

‘Does Grace know?'

‘Not yet, because she's very tired and she's having a good
sleep. She will soon. But she won't want to talk about it. So I can trust you, can't I, Trish, to keep your promise.'

Trish nodded, and was distracted at that moment by a new arrival. Rupert Beverley came, as had become his custom, to the kitchen door, although since Grace's marriage to Ellis there had been a maid to answer the front doorbell and all the entertaining rooms were back in use. Mrs Hardie had been glad to hand the housework over to someone else, but continued to do the cooking herself. She had allotted one of the many sculleries to be a special place in which Trish could make as much mess as she liked with the jars of poster paint she had been given for Christmas, so that in the late afternoon, when school was over and dinner was in preparation, the kitchen was as much of a family centre as it had been in the servantless days.

‘Good afternoon, Cousin Lucy. Hello, Patricia. What a ripping smell! You must have been expecting me. Gingerbread is my favourite tea.'