Two Loves Page 16

  ‘How lovely,’ Rosamund said, waiting for the dénouement. Had the rains come? Had someone embarrassed Anthony by referring to Erica as his wife? Had they quarrelled? Missed the train back to London? What?

  But there was nothing more. Erica’s head had slipped back against the wing of her armchair and she was asleep.

  And Rosamund suddenly understood that for Erica, that day had become theirs; a celebration of their union, hers and Anthony’s; that cloudless June day when they’d been in perfect harmony, holding hands, looking at each other knowing that they were as happy as two people could ever be. And the children had danced and someone had played the violin. Life in a day, Rosamund thought. And realised it was a phrase from one of Anthony’s poems.

  She took the tray back to the kitchen, washed the cups and saucers, put the remains of the cake away, picked up her bag and let herself out.

  * * *

  When she got back to Eversley Place, she found Daniel worse than she’d ever seen him; he couldn’t seem to stop shaking, couldn’t stop groaning. She did her best to comfort him. ‘Listen, you’re halfway through now. You’re winning. You’re doing very well.’ But her words sounded glib and foolish, even to herself.

  She tried again. ‘Is it pain or nausea?’ she asked him in a very gentle voice. She felt another surge of love for him.

  He didn’t answer, just sat slumped in his chair, breathing heavily, his head almost touching his chest.

  ‘Both,’ he said after a minute or two. ‘Both, and much more as well. Oh God, it’s like your blood curdling in your veins and you’re breathing poison gas. Like being wounded in the trenches and the stretcher-bearers passing you by.’ He tried to smile, as though admitting to being melodramatic.

  ‘But the Methadone helps?’ she asked, desperate for some reassurance.

  ‘You couldn’t go through it without that,’ he said. ‘Not unless they put you in a strait-jacket and left you to scream.’

  ‘And what about the clinic, if you get that far? You’ll still get Methadone there?’

  ‘Yes. Only they give you smaller and smaller doses and gradually try to get you off it. Oh, God knows how they try to do it. Don’t let’s think of it. Anyway, it won’t work in my case.’

  ‘It won’t work if you’re determined it won’t. You must try to be more positive, Daniel.’

  ‘Christ, you sound exactly like a bloody social worker. No wonder Marie is frightened of you.’

  ‘Is she? Is she really?’

  ‘No, of course she isn’t. Don’t fucking listen to me when I’m like this. Don’t take everything so fucking seriously, for God’s sake.’

  He started moaning again, rocking back and forth in his chair. She tried holding his hands, then wiping his forehead and chest with a cold wet cloth, but he couldn’t bear her to touch him, and after about half an hour, begged her to leave.

  ‘I love you,’ she said as she left him. But he couldn’t or wouldn’t respond.

  * * *

  She tapped on Marie’s door and found her sitting on her bed painting her nails.

  ‘I got this stuff in Merstow Street market this afternoon,’ she said. ‘Only thirty-five pence. It’s called Dark Passion. Do you like it?’ She held out her small hand in a graceful curve.

  Rosamund inspected the bitten fingernails, now dark and shiny as blackberry jam. ‘Lovely. The smell’s lovely too.’ It was a pungent, healthy smell.

  Theodore was asleep, his breathing hardly moving the little sheet that covered him.

  ‘I’m leaving now,’ Rosamund said, rather sadly.

  ‘Yeh, I’m keeping out of his way, too. No one can help him when he’s like this.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  After phoning and visiting several centres and getting references from the therapists running the counselling sessions he’d attended, Rosamund managed to get Daniel into a private rehabilitation centre in Richmond.

  He was nervous and withdrawn when they arrived, objecting to the rules, though they were few, the too-genteel decor; pale grey and white, and the hushed, hospital atmosphere. She stayed with him as long as she could, hoping his mood would lighten, but finally had to tear herself away to catch the last train home, and though he kissed her as she left, he refused to smile. She was very distressed on the journey home, wondering what the outcome would be. That day he’d been even more pessimistic than usual about his chances of recovery.

  ‘I’m not too sure about him coming to live with us,’ Joss had told her on the phone. ‘I may like him, but then again I may not.’

  ‘I think you will. Anyway, he’s only coming as a lodger. Only for a few weeks, probably. If you like, you can come with me to visit him at the clinic, but you must remember that he’s been seriously ill so that he’s rather quiet and reserved at the moment.’

  ‘There’s a Daniel in my school who’s a pain in the bum.’

  * * *

  The next day was Joss’s birthday, and as she’d been in London for over a week, Rosamund knew she’d have to make a great effort to be in party mood; Daniel and his problems had to be pushed to the very back of her mind.

  She’d bought Joss a four-man ridge tent – PVC windows, corded steel uprights and ridge poles, guylines, pegs and carry case – and intended to set it up in the garden that afternoon before he came home from school. When she heard the car drawing up outside, she thought it would be her mother and Brian coming to help and supervise, and she rushed to the door.

  It was Molly Gilchrist in a long black car driven by an elderly and rather stern-looking man with grey suit and grey hair.

  ‘I thought it was time we had a talk,’ she said, getting out of the car very slowly and regally, her hand on her primrose yellow hat. ‘This is Ambrose Lockhart, my solicitor. Ambrose, Mrs Rosamund Gilchrist.’

  ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch with you,’ Rosamund murmured. ‘I meant to, but I’ve been away looking after a sick friend. I only came home yesterday. Do come in.’

  Molly walked into the studio like someone in a dream, like someone intent on noticing nothing of the house where her late husband had once lived. Ambrose Lockhart helped her into an armchair.

  ‘Would you like some home-made lemonade or some tea?’ Rosamund asked.

  ‘Tea, please.’

  ‘Tea, please,’ echoed Mr Lockhart.

  Rosamund went to the kitchen to put the kettle on and took some deep breaths before returning.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I didn’t feel I could refuse Erica Underhill permission to publish the poems. I suppose that’s what you’ve come about.’

  Molly inclined her head a fraction. ‘Yes.’

  ‘As I told you, I think she really needs the money. And as the copyrights are mine, I felt it was my decision.’

  ‘Shall we have tea before we discuss the matter?’ Mr Lockhart asked. ‘Mrs Gilchrist is far from well.’ He got up from his chair and went to stand close to her as though to protect her from Rosamund.

  ‘Of course. The kettle won’t take long.’

  Molly was sitting up very straight, her eyes closed. She looked, indeed, far from well. Rosamund tried to feel sorry for her, but failed. She’s too much the avenging angel, she told herself.

  She made tea, laid out a tray and carried it into the studio. ‘It’s my son’s birthday today,’ she said brightly, noticing them glancing at the cards on the windowsill.

  Neither Molly nor Mr Lockhart made any response, only sipped their tea and looked at each other gravely.

  Molly declined a second cup and sat up even straighter in her chair. ‘I’m determined that Underhill shall not publish Anthony’s poems,’ she said then, ‘nor benefit from them.’

  ‘The copyrights are mine,’ Rosamund said again, but with less conviction than before.

  There was another silence. Mr Lockhart cleared his throat as though to speak, but before he did so another car drew up and, ‘Rosamund!’ a voice sang out. ‘Rosamund, dear, where shall I put the bicycle?’

  ‘It�
�s my mother,’ Rosamund told her guests.

  Marian, a little flushed from her exertions and her birthday excitement, wheeled the be-ribboned pink and silver bicycle into the studio. ‘How lovely to meet you,’ she said on being introduced to Molly and Mr Lockhart. ‘Have you come up for the birthday party? How very nice. Yes, the bicycle is from my husband and me. It’s what is called a mountain bicycle. Hideously expensive, but Joshua’s little friend had one for his birthday, so we thought he should have one too. Is it all right to leave it here, Rosamund? Against this stack of paintings? Right. I’ve got a strawberry pavlova in the car. I’m afraid I ordered the birthday cake from Wimpole’s this year, dear. He wanted a spaceship, Mrs Gilchrist, and that was totally beyond my capabilities, I’m afraid. I’m a good plain cook, I admit that, but spaceships are another matter entirely.’

  Molly stood up as though to rise above Marian’s chatter, followed a second later by Mr Lockhart. ‘Are you aware, Mrs Spiers, that your daughter has decided to side with her late husband’s mistress rather than with me?’

  Marian looked deeply shocked that Molly should bring up such sordid matters on the occasion of a joyous family celebration. ‘I’m sure my daughter has her reasons,’ she said, her voice loud, clear and icy.

  Molly looked through her. ‘And if she persists in flaunting my wishes, I shall have to inform the Press that she tricked my late husband into marrying her. That he was not the father of her child.’

  ‘Why ever would you want to do that?’ Rosamund asked her.

  ‘I wouldn’t want to do it. But I certainly shall do it if you allow that woman to publish those wretched poems.’

  ‘In other words, you’re blackmailing me?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Mr Lockhart said, his voice mild as milk. ‘Mrs Gilchrist is most anxious to settle this matter amicably. But her son has certain rights and is not prepared to forfeit those rights to someone who is on a collision course with his mother.’

  ‘Her son?’ Marian wondered aloud. ‘What rights can her son expect in all this?’ For a time her head seemed numbed by the effort she was making to understand the solicitor’s matter-of-fact assertions. What possible connection did Molly’s son have with Joss? What rights could he have? Good Heavens, she thought at last. Good heavens.

  ‘We must go,’ Molly said, her voice dripping with malice. ‘We’ve obviously come at an inopportune time. Most unfortunate. But I’m sure you’ll agree with me, Mrs Gilchrist, that it’s in your interest to get in touch with me at your earliest convenience.’

  ‘Thank you for the tea,’ Mr Lockhart murmured as they left.

  Bewildered but still undaunted, Marian sat down. ‘What an unpleasant woman,’ she said. ‘And that ridiculous hat. What could she have been thinking of? And did you notice her shoes? She could hardly walk in them … You really should have told me, dear,’ she said then. ‘You should have let me know.’

  ‘I didn’t think it mattered. Anthony knew. I didn’t deceive Anthony.’

  ‘And his son Alex, Anthony and Molly’s son, is Joshua’s real father?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did Anthony know that?’

  ‘Not at first. At first I simply told him I was pregnant. In fact I intended having an abortion at that time, and wanted him to give me – or lend me – the money for it. But he wouldn’t hear of an abortion. And then Alex followed me here and eventually told Anthony it was his baby. Anthony was furious, shocked and furious, and threatened to tell Alex’s wife unless he promised to give up all claims to the baby. Which he did readily enough. But now that he and Selena are divorced, I suppose he thinks it’s safe for him to break his promise.’

  ‘You had a love affair with Alex, dear?’ Marian asked rather timidly.

  ‘No, Mum. Whatever it was, there was precious little love in it. Alex had met me here, decided I was Anthony’s mistress, which I wasn’t, and I suppose concluded that I was anybody’s. You know, one of these promiscuous Bohemian types that men dream about. And having decided that, he made some excuse to call at my flat in Liverpool and refused to change his mind.’

  ‘What a dreadful man. But I must say Anthony seems to have behaved very well towards you.’

  ‘Anthony seemed more than happy with the arrangement. He didn’t get on with Alex, but he liked Selena and wanted the marriage to last. Also, he was a bit in love with me, you know. Or at least, liked me quite a lot.’

  ‘You should have told me, dear. I would have been much more understanding for one thing. So would your father.’

  ‘Paul? He doesn’t really trouble himself about me.’

  ‘He never troubled himself about me, either. It’s a good thing he’s got Dora to pander to him. She’s coming down this evening, dear, I hope that’s all right. She’ll be here about seven. She rang me because she couldn’t get in touch with you. She’s bringing Joss a microwave oven – you know how he loves mine – and some M & S frozen meals. Isn’t it sad to think that that awful woman, that Molly whatsit, is his other Granny? Isn’t it a good thing he’s got Dora?’

  * * *

  Rosamund let Marian take over making tea; the sandwiches and the sausage rolls, and went back to the garden to set up the tent. It was getting hotter and more sultry by the minute, and as she puzzled her way through the instructions she felt sick with worry. For herself, she didn’t much mind what Molly chose to reveal to the Press or to anyone else, but how would it affect Joss, to be informed that his real father was alive and anxious to get to know him? Not that she could believe that Alex, with two estranged children from his own marriage, would much relish an active share in Joss’s upbringing, but that would be the fiction they’d be putting about.

  Alex seemed to have all Anthony’s faults, his infidelity and lack of purpose, without any of his strength and sensitivity. She knew that things were going very badly for him, that Selena had divorced him, that he’d had a complete nervous breakdown – during which he’d probably confessed to Molly about being Joss’s father – and that he was drinking heavily and had lost his job. He’d been left nothing in Anthony’s will, so was no doubt wholly dependent on his mother even for the maintenance he had to pay his children. And as he was a mean-spirited man with a definite grudge against her, he’d do whatever his mother put him up to. And how could she, Rosamund, bear the responsibility of letting him trouble Joss in any way?

  If she explained the position to Erica, she’d surely understand that she had to put her ten-year-old son first? And then Molly would be satisfied and the threat of Alex’s interference in her life would be called off. That was her obvious plan of action, she thought as she struggled with the first tent poles.

  But why should she, how could she let Erica down? She felt close to her, almost as though they were related. And Erica had been let down too many times already. Joss was only just ten, but very mature for his age, and would understand how she’d had to mislead him. And surely he’d be able to tolerate Alex’s occasional presence? Might even be pleased to discover that his father was alive and not dead?

  On the other hand … ‘Mum, that’s a super tent, but you’ve got it all wrong. Let me and Harry do it.’

  ‘It’s not all wrong. Don’t be mean. I’ve been at it for ages. Following all these terrible instructions in German, French, Arabic and Japanese. I want to finish it myself. Please. You two go in and have some lemonade and see what Granny’s got for you.’

  They ignored her and got the tent up in less than two minutes, without once consulting the three pages of minutely-printed instructions.

  ‘There!’ Joss hugged her, nearly knocking her off her feet. ‘Can we sleep in it tonight? Can we sleep in it every night for the rest of the summer? Hello, Gran. You should have been out here helping Mum. I bet you’d know the difference between the fly sheet and the ground sheet.’

  ‘Don’t be unkind to your mother, dear. She’s got a lot on her mind at the moment. Harry, how is Jim? I do hope Mary-Louise hasn’t got him out in this heat.’

&nb
sp; ‘She puts sun-block on him, Mrs Spiers.’

  ‘And he needs a vest, shirt and knickers and a sun-hat as well. You tell her that, will you, dear? Oh, she seems very foolhardy. I saw her striding about the village this morning, nothing on her feet but nail-varnish.’

  ‘She’s put nail-varnish on Harry as well,’ Joss said. ‘Miss Adams wasn’t half mad in PE. Show her, Harry.’

  Harry took off his socks and sandals and displayed beautiful pink-tipped feet.

  Marian tutted in dismay.

  ‘She put pink nail varnish on Dad’s toenails as well,’ Harry said defensively.

  Marian tutted again.

  And Rosamund turned away to hide a sudden spasm of anger. Was she jealous of Mary-Louise, she wondered. ‘Are they coming up later?’ she asked then.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Harry said. ‘Shall I phone them? Mary-Louise might like to come. Dad could look after Jim.’

  ‘I’d rather have Jim,’ Joss said. ‘I bet he’d like it in the tent. He never cries when I’m looking after him. Mary-Louise is a spoilsport always wanting to put him to bed so that she can watch telly. I’ll phone and ask Thomas and Jim over. It’s my birthday.’

  ‘All right, dear,’ Marian said. ‘And Martin and Stephen can come too if they promise not to fight. I’m sure Mary-Louise can find plenty to do while they’re away.’

  But Joss came straight back, the phone-call forgotten, and stood by the door looking shy, almost sheepish. ‘Granny, is that bike for me?’

  ‘Do you mean the pink and silver one, dear? The one with red ribbons on the handlebars?’

  ‘Yes. That one.’

  Marian held out her arms and Joss hurled himself into them and submitted to being hugged and kissed.