The Prodigal Wife (2 page)

Henrietta recognized the voice at once, though this morning the message was a different one.

‘
Hi, Roger. It's me again. It's ten o'clock on Tuesday morning. I might pop in later today on my way down from Bristol. Round about four o'clock. Sorry I keep missing you.
'

Instinctively she glanced at her watch: just after eleven.

‘It's your fault he keeps missing us, whoever he is,' she told the dogs, who had subsided into furry golden heaps on the cold slates. ‘He always phones when we're out for a walk.'

Their feathery tails wagged with polite indifference and Juno, mother and grandmother of the other two retrievers, heaved herself to her feet so as to drink lavishly from the large bowl of water beside the dresser. The kitchen door stood open to the warm September sunshine and a delightful confusion of rich colour: pinky mauve Japanese anemones, crimson and purple Michaelmas daisies, scarlet montbretia all grouped together and dusted by the powdery sunlight. Henrietta made coffee and carried it to the little wooden chair outside the door. She felt that something significant was about to happen: there was a kind of magic in the soft golden glow that overlaid this small court; an expectant, hushed waiting in the deep rural silence. Juno came out to sit beside her, leaning against the chair, and Henrietta slid her arm around the furry neck and laid her cheek on the top of Juno's head.

‘You miss them all, don't you?' she murmured sympathetically. ‘Well, so do I, but we might as well get used to it.'

They sat quietly together, Henrietta sipping her coffee and wondering about the voice on the answering machine, whilst Juno's heavy head rested against her knee. The first message had been waiting for her just a few hours after Roger and Maggie had left for London on the first leg of their journey nearly a week ago. To distract the dogs from their departure she'd driven them off through the narrow lanes towards Crowcombe, up to the Great Wood, and taken them for a walk on Robin Upright's Hill where she could look out across Bridgwater Bay. When she'd returned to the cottage, the green light on the answerphone had been flashing. She'd hurried to it, fearful that there had been some kind of problem; that the train had been delayed and they'd failed to meet up with Susan and the children.

‘
Hi, Roger, it's Joe. Thanks for looking out the books for me. I'll be coming your way soon. Love to Maggie.
'

There had been no instructions about Joe's books, although a carrier bag stood on the chest in the hall. She'd glanced inside and seen that it did indeed contain books: books about boats and harbours. Well, that wasn't surprising given that Roger was a retired naval officer with a very wide knowledge of old sailing boats.

But who was this Joe? Henrietta had the oddest feeling that she knew him; that she recognized his voice – she'd even imagined that she'd met him and that they'd talked. Now, sitting in the sun with Juno stretched out at her feet, she could visualize him: tall, with fair hair, hands sketching shapes in the air as he talked. But where and when? She pulled her long thick plait over one shoulder and twiddled the end, drawing it through her fingers. It occurred to her that he might be a member of one of the naval families with whom she was connected by the network of married quarters, naval hirings and boarding schools. Clearly he was on familiar terms with Roger and Maggie. A new thought, that he also might be of their generation, gave rise to a sudden and quite disproportionate sense of disappointment. Of course she could dial 1471, get his number – unless it was withheld, telephone this Joe and tell him Roger was away but she'd found a bag of books that might be for him. Perhaps she simply wanted to enjoy the mystery for a little longer: to allow her imagination to weave amusing scenarios which distracted from her present problems.

His voice sounded young, she told herself firmly. And that image of him talking, explaining something to her, was the image of a young man. Yet, if they'd met, how could she have forgotten his name? She finished her coffee with mixed emotions: excitement, apprehension, curiosity.

‘Get a grip,' she told herself. ‘He's probably a boring old fart with a passion for tea clippers.'

Nevertheless, she decided that she'd drive into Bicknoller after lunch and buy something special for tea – a delicious sponge perhaps. Luckily Roger had a very large stock of alcohol, though she'd get a lemon in case Joe liked a gin and tonic. She wondered what she could rustle up for supper…

‘Honestly!' she cried aloud in vexation. ‘What are you
doing
?'

Juno struggled up, alarmed by the sudden cry, and Henrietta stroked her head remorsefully.

‘Sorry,' she said. ‘Sorry, Juno. I'm losing it. That's what comes of having nothing to do. I'm missing the children, and Susan dashing in and out, and all the usual dramas.'

Another thought occurred to her. Gently pushing Juno's bulk to one side, Henrietta got up and went into the house. She hesitated for a moment before replaying the message, and then she found her mobile and dialled her mother's number.

 

Two telephone calls before she'd even got to her desk, which was covered with computer printouts, articles snipped from newspapers and journals, reference books. Wandering between the kitchen and the study, mug of coffee in hand, she was just getting the first sentence of her piece into her head: ‘Charteris Soke in Frampton Parva is the only house of its kind known to exist this far south.' Pause there. Was she absolutely certain that this was true? Well, that could be thoroughly checked later. Now. Should it be ‘
delightful
Charteris Soke'? Or ‘
charming
Charteris Soke'? Either adjective seemed overused; dull. Anyway, follow that with a bit about what a soke actually is. Cordelia riffled about for a relevant piece of paper, checked the dictionary definition of soke or
soc
: the right to hold a local court; or the territory under the jurisdiction of a particular court. She studied the photographs of the little ancient manor house – the shape of the piece was gradually forming – and then her mobile phone shrieked again in the bowels of the kitchen and she put down the coffee mug and ran out into the passage, finally snatching the phone up from beneath the pile of newspapers on the kitchen table.

‘Hi,' she cried breathlessly. ‘Hello? Are you still there? Oh, Henrietta. Oh, thank goodness. I thought I was too late and you'd hung up. Did you get my text to say that I was back? How's it going? Are you settling in?'

‘I'm fine, Mum. Yes, I got your text. Everything's fine. Look, I just thought I'd check with you. I've had this message on the answerphone from someone called Joe who wants to drop in later and who obviously knows Roger and Maggie very well, so I'm wondering if there might be a naval connection. I feel I recognize the voice. Do we know someone called Joe? My generation, not yours. Does it ring any bells?'

‘Jo.' Cordelia cast about amongst her large circle of naval friends and acquaintances. ‘Jo. That's short for Joanna, I suppose, or Josephine…'

‘No, no. Sorry. This is a man not a girl.'

‘Ah.' Cordelia revised her ideas. ‘Joe. Right. Joseph. No, I can't think of a Joe offhand.'

‘Me neither. Only the voice sounds familiar. Never mind. Are you OK?'

‘Fine. Wrestling with that piece for
Country Illustrated
. Sure you don't want some company? It must be so odd to be suddenly set down in the middle of rural Somerset with nothing but Maggie's menagerie for company after the house in London with Susan and…with Susan and the children. I could come over if you're feeling lonely. Or we could meet in Taunton for a spot of retail therapy.'

‘Honestly, I'm fine. Really. And anyway, you're obviously in the middle of your article. I'll let you know who Joe is later on. 'Bye.'

Cordelia went back to her study, her mind all over the place, completely distracted. Had there been a veiled criticism there?
You're obviously in the middle of your article
. Love for her daughter filled her, along with anxiety and compassion and guilt, especially guilt: all the emotions guaranteed to quench any creative flow. She fiddled about, tidying papers, closing books and putting them back on shelves, sipping at the lukewarm coffee whilst a question she'd heard recently on a radio programme nibbled at her thoughts.

Are we the first generation to need to be friends with our children?

Well, are we? She thought about her own parents: caring but detached. None of this emotional soul-baring for them; no in-depth discussions of their offsprings' feelings or needs. She could well remember her father's reaction to her own separation and subsequent divorce, his expression of shock fading into distaste when she told him that Simon was leaving her.

‘Another woman, I suppose. No, I don't want the sordid details. I can only say that I'm glad your mother is dead.'

No, no. Things relating to the emotions were best kept hidden; not talked of; stiff upper lip.

Are we the first generation to need to be friends with our children?

Well, she did need to be friends with Henrietta. She wanted to encourage and support and be there for her. But, oh, the grief and anxiety not to be shown, never to be shown, just gnawing away inside.

Henrietta's little pinched white face: ‘Is Daddy leaving us because I got bored of cleaning out Boris properly?'

Boris was the hamster, a handsome, benign, if intellectually limited, creature.

‘Bored
with
, darling, or
by
. No, of course he isn't. It's just that sometimes friendships stop working properly.'

‘But Daddy's still friends with me?'

‘Of course he is. And always will be.' Until he'd written to his daughter when she was fifteen; a creamy white envelope containing a message as destructive as a bomb whose fallout was still causing damage nearly twelve years later.

Cordelia sat down and stared at the computer screen, unhelpfully blank just like her mind. How inept she'd been at the time. How ineffectual and helpless. She'd felt exactly the same when she'd arrived in Tregunter Road a month ago to find the place in turmoil.

Suddenly the screen seems to dissolve before her eyes and instead she sees Henrietta's face, her eyes wary, the old familiar shadow slicing down between them like a sword, cutting off any exchange of warmth and love.

 

She's up in London for a lunch at the Arts Club with her agent. She stays with friends in Fulham but drops in, as arranged, to see Henrietta on the way to Dover Street. As soon as the door opens she knows that something is wrong. The usual atmosphere of busy conviviality is missing. No sound comes from the two big basement rooms from which Susan directs her small but successful mail-order business, and the kitchen is deserted: no Iain snatching a moment from his computer with the morning paper and a cup of coffee; no children running in from the garden to greet her.

Cordelia puts her bag on the table, looks around puzzled.

‘Is it a bad moment?' she asks.

Henrietta's eyes are enormous with shock. ‘Iain's gone,' she says. ‘He's just packed up and gone.'

They stare at each other. ‘Gone?' Her own voice is husky, fearful. ‘D'you mean he's left Susan?'

Henrietta nods. Suddenly her expression changes, grows distant. ‘Yes, gone. This morning. Apparently he's been having an affair for ages. Susan's gutted.'

They continue to stare at each other; other memories surfacing, resentment stirring. Susan's voice is heard, calling from upstairs, and a child is crying.

‘You'd better go,' says Henrietta quickly. ‘Sorry, but she won't want to see anyone just yet and I'm trying to keep the children out of her hair,' and Cordelia acquiesces at once, letting herself out of the house, hurrying away to Dover Street.

 

‘Charteris Soke in Frampton Parva is the only house…' It was beginning to sound like an estate agent's enthusiastic pitch rather than a feature on a tiny piece of history. When the telephone rang again Cordelia snatched it up almost fearfully, until she saw his initials.

‘Dilly?'

The sound of his voice, the silly, familiar nickname, filled her with joy and relief. As her shoulders relaxed and she took a deep, deep breath she realized how very tense she'd been.

‘Darling. Wasn't it fun? When shall I see you?'

‘I could be with you about tea-time. Would that be good?'

She could hear the smile in his voice. ‘You have no idea how good,' she answered. ‘'Bye, darling.'

Cordelia stood up and went back to the kitchen, then out on to the wide stone balcony carved from the cliff, which dropped precipitously into the sea below. Hers was the last in the row of coastguard cottages and the most private. The other two were holiday homes, let out for most of the summer and empty for the greater part of the winter. Her windows had an uninterrupted view of the sea, and of the coast that stretched away to Stoke Point to the west and Bolt Tail to the east. Inside the boundary walls she'd planted escallonia, fuchsia, tamarisk, to protect herself from the interested, and even envious, gaze of walkers on the coastal path higher up the cliff that passed a few yards from the front door. She leaned her elbows on the wide wall where feverfew clung in tiny crevices, and clumps of pink and white valerian were precariously rooted. Below her the sea rocked gently as though it were tethered to the cliffs, anchored and going nowhere; a squabble of seagulls screamed insults at one another from sharp-angled ledges. Light streamed down from a wide haze-blue firmament and was reflected back so that there was no distinction between sky and water. Away to the west a single fishing boat ploughed a lonely, shining furrow.

Soon he would be on his way: there would be time for talk, for sharing, and for love.