A Dream of her Own (46 page)
‘She encourages me.’ He sounded embarrassed but, at the same time, pleased. ‘She resents the time I am away at business, anyway. She would rather we spent the whole day together.’
‘And you? Do you want to spend the whole day with Iris?’
Robert looked at her keenly. ‘Constance, I know that she didn’t make you welcome. I was very sorry about that, and it’s going to be a problem-’
‘Why a problem?’
‘Well, now that I’ve found you again, I want to keep in touch. And this time I’m not going to allow you to leave without your telling me where you live. But Iris . . . Iris . . .’
‘She doesn’t like me.’
‘No, it’s not that. I mean, well, it’s not just you. She is jealous of anybody that I spend my time with. She seems to need to keep me all to herself. In fact that’s why I am abandoned here alone now. My grandfather thinks that I am neglecting the business. He persuaded Iris’s parents to ask her to visit them - on the pretext of allowing them to spend time with their grandson. But it’s really so that she will not distract me.’
‘And did Iris agree to this plan?’
‘She’s a dutiful daughter and a fond mother. She found it hard to resist her parents’ desire to make a fuss of Douglas.’ He smiled self-mockingly. ‘But she was very reluctant to leave me behind!’
‘And do you mind such possessiveness?’
‘I wish she could be different ... but I love her. I don’t know exactly why. Who can define or explain love?’ He laughed self-consciously.
Constance remembered how patient Robert had been with his wife when she was being difficult with the housemaid. She said without thinking, ‘So you’re prepared to put up with her high-handed ways?’
He looked taken aback and Constance thought that she might have gone too far. ‘Robert, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t criticize your wife. I promise that I won’t do it again. There, that’s the second time I’ve had to apologize.’
Her brother looked away for a moment and then he said, ‘My little family is so important to me. When we were all together - my father, your mother ... you and me - life was perfect then, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘I think I’ve been trying to make such a home again . . . will go on doing so ... if we have other children. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Of course I do.’
He looked concerned. ‘But I want you to know that my grandparents were very kind to me.’
‘I’m sure they were. But—’
‘So I could never tell them how much I missed Mama.’
‘You mean—’
‘Your mother. I hardly remember my own. I think about her - my own mother - more now that I have a child of my own. I’m so sad that she and Father are not here to see their grandson.’
‘Oh, Robert, I know how you feel.’
‘Do you?’ At that moment she would have told him about her own children and her own feelings of loss but he hurried on, ‘And Mama Agnes, too. She always behaved towards me as if I were her own child.’
‘I know that she loved you.’
‘And I loved her.’ Suddenly he grinned. ‘How fortunate that my father chose to go to Le Touquet!’
Constance smiled. She remembered how, when they were children, their father would begin their favourite story with those words. He would regale them with the tale of how he and Robert had been walking up a steep path from the beach when an old lady in a bath chair had come hurtling towards them. Robert had tugged at his father’s sleeve and pointed in wonderment as the chair drew nearer and the old lady’s terror became evident. A young woman was running down the path behind the chair but it was obvious that she wasn’t going to catch up with it.
Richard Bannerman pushed his son aside on to the grassy bank and grabbed at the chair, hanging on to it for dear life as the young woman caught up with it and collided with him. She only had time to breathe her thanks into his waistcoat before the old woman turned round and, instead of being grateful, began to hurl abuse.
At this point Constance and Robert would always ask, ‘What did the old woman say?’ and their father would reply, ‘Words that I’m glad my little boy couldn’t understand!’
The old woman, Mrs Stanton, was a wealthy widow who had come to Le Touquet hoping to relieve her arthritis by partaking of the mineral salts of its waters. The young woman had been Agnes Lowe, her companion, who had been instantly dismissed over the runaway bath chair.
No matter that it had been her employer’s own fault; when Agnes had advised against taking the steep path, Mrs Stanton had grabbed at the wheels wilfully, and set off anyway. Agnes was to take her back to the hotel and pack her own bags and be gone. It would be easy enough to find another improverished, orphaned English girl amongst the English expatriate community who would be grateful for the pittance paid by Mrs Stanton.
Richard Bannerman used to laugh when he told them he had been tempted to carry Agnes off immediately and leave the difficult old person stranded on the beach to be carried away by the incoming tide. But Agnes’s sweet nature had prevailed and they had taken Mrs Stanton back to her hotel together. She had even stayed with the old ogre until the next unfortunate companion was established in her duties.
After that their father had always ended the story by telling them that he had offered Agnes a new position on the spot. That of looking after Robert - and himself. Agnes had accepted the job of nursemaid and, before very long, his heart as well, he said. By the time they returned from Le Touquet, Agnes had become the second Mrs Bannerman.
Constance and Robert remained silent for a while, each lost in memories of their shared, happy childhood. The fire crackled in the hearth and, outside, the sky darkened. It was only when the windowpane began to rattle in a rising wind that Constance’s reverie was broken.
She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece with alarm. It was half-past four and it would take her more than an hour to get home, longer if the weather worsened. She would not be in time to feed Beatrice and Amy ... Florence would have to manage with the feeding bottles again . . .
‘Constance, what is it?’ Her brother had risen from his chair and he looked concerned.
‘Mm?’
‘You look worried.’ Again she could have told him about her own children but she simply said, ‘I’ve stayed too long. I should go now.’
‘I’ll take you home.’
‘Take me?’
‘I have an automobile - such fun! Have you ever ridden in one?’
‘Yes.’ She saw his questioning look and added, ‘A ... a friend of my husband owns one. He took me to the church on my wedding day.’
John knocked peremptorily on the door of the nursery and opened it without waiting for an answer. He didn’t want to give Constance the chance to send him away. She was sitting on the padded seat that formed the corner of the fender, holding some baby clothes towards the fire. Florence and Polly held a twin each; the babies were wrapped in large white towels. They had just come out of the bath. The room was filled with the scent of soap and baby powder.
He caught his breath. The scene looked so peaceful, so normal, such as was enacted in hundreds of other households every evening. How could he fail to be happy? How could he fail to love the beautiful children that Constance had given him? He felt a deep regret that he didn’t spend more time here ... he knew that it was his conscience that was keeping him away. For at the heart of this picture there was a lie.
Constance didn’t speak; she just looked towards him politely. She was always so icily polite.
‘Will you be long?’ he asked.
‘Long?’
‘Will our daughters be in bed soon?’
‘Yes, soon.’
‘I should like to speak to you.’
‘Well, speak.’
‘Alone.’ He controlled a spasm of anger. ‘I mean alone.’
‘Flo and I can finish in here,’ Polly said. ‘You run along if you want to, Mrs Edington.’
‘No, that’s all right, Polly. I should like to see Amy and Beatrice into bed.’
John saw the two young women exchange looks. Constance’s visits to the nursery were erratic. She came when it suited her and could not be counted on to stay. Tonight it suited her to stay here and thwart him.
‘We’ll just be another ten minutes or so, Mr Edington.’ It was the nurserymaid, Florence, who spoke, no doubt worried that he would blame her for any delay. She flushed when she saw Constance’s look of displeasure.
Amy, who was on Florence’s knee, began to grizzle as if she had sensed the new tensions in the erstwhile cosy room. Beatrice turned her head to look at her sister and gave out a bellow of rage. John watched helplessly as both his daughters began to sob, egging each other on, unwilling to be the first to be comforted.
He saw a smile pass across Constance’s face before she said, ‘It may take a little longer to settle them now, John.’
Florence and Polly looked down at the floor and Constance watched him expectantly. He bowed his head in acknowledgement of her victory and left the room.
Once her daughters were settled in their cribs Constance told Florence that she could go down to the kitchen and have her tea with Polly; she herself would be happy to sit here until dinner was ready.
As soon as their regular breathing signalled that Amy and Beatrice were sleeping soundly, Constance left her chair and went to look at them. As usual the tears came to her eyes. They were so beautiful, and she wished she could love them wholeheartedly as they deserved. Mrs Green had assured her that many new mothers took time to adjust and it was quite normal to feel weepy now and then. Especially after such an unexpectedly protracted labour.
But Constance could honestly say that the physical pain she had suffered was easily forgotten. She was young and healthy and she had certainly been pampered throughout her pregnancy.
It was the other events of that dreadful night that she was still trying to come to terms with. The nightmare of finding her husband dressed like a woman and in the arms of another man. Even now she only half understood what kind of man John might be. And there was no one she could ask, no one she could confide in.
After that first shocked moment Matthew had been the first to realize what was happening. John had looked utterly horrified - and helpless. He’d stood there with one frilled strap of the ridiculous blue velvet gown falling down his shoulder, and the white flower in his hair - yes, there’d been a flower in his hair - was swooping down towards one eye.
Even in her pain, Constance had felt the urge to laugh. In fact she thought that she probably had laughed but the hysterical sounds she made had been mistaken for cries of pain and terror.
‘John!’ Matthew had commanded. ‘I think your child will be born tonight. Go and get changed as quickly as you can and then rouse Polly. I shall go for your doctor.’
Neither of them had thought to lift her on to the sofa or even give her a cushion or two. She had heard a whispered conversation at the door before she had been left alone. She didn’t know how long she’d lain there, she only knew that her birth pains had started.
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