You know? No? It’s a wood down here, really beautiful,
under threat from a developer. Well, anyway, I’ll explain.
Yes, come to tea, Sandy. The twins will be pleased.’
The twins certainly seemed pleased; Poppy rushed importantly
to the car, helped to unbuckle Dickon from his seat.
‘Come on,’ she said to Sandy, ‘Gabriel’s here, he’s
playing cricket. Gideon’s having to hop. It’s so funny.’
‘Who’s Gabriel?’
‘A friend. Of Mummy’s.’ Her face was slightly wary as
she said it.
‘Your father’s not here?’
‘No. He had to work this weekend. He just might come
down tomorrow.’
It was plainly not true; Sandy wondered how much she
had managed to interpret for herself from the situation,
from the carefully presented version she would have been
given.
‘Sandy, hallo. Come in.’ Octavia kissed him; slightly
awkward, determinedly bright. ‘How — how are you?’
‘Not too bad considering. You know.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, I do know.’ She smiled at him, then
suddenly drew him to her and kissed him again, more
warmly, more easily. ‘I’m so glad you came. We both need
it. Now come on in. This is a friend of mine, Pattie David.
And this is her daughter Megan. And that—’ she pointed at
a rather odd-looking figure wearing baggy khaki shorts and old-fashioned plimsolls, bowling at Gideon — ‘that is Gabriel Bingham. The local MP. And cricket coach. Come and sit
down, we’re all talking about the wood …’
Sandy neither knew nor cared about the wood, only that
he was grateful for it. He sat down next to Pattie David.
‘Hallo,’ she said, smiling at him. She had a nice smile; it
made her look ten years younger. She was rather pretty in a
worn, faded sort of way. ‘Will you be able to help us with
this, do you think?’
‘What, the wood? Oh, not really my thing, protests and
all that.’
‘What is your thing?’
‘I’m in the wine trade. Before that I was in the army.
Pretty good at crawling through undergrowth, that’s about
all I could manage.’
‘That could be jolly helpful,’ she said, we’re thinking of
adopting Swampy-type tactics. You could help us with the
tunnels. Only joking! My father was in the army,’ she
added.
‘Really? Which regiment?’
‘DCLI.’
‘No! My father was in the Somersets.’
‘Heavens,’ said Pattie, ‘they probably knew one another.
When did you leave?’
‘About three years ago. After twelve years.’
‘Do you miss it?’
‘More than I can possibly tell you,’ said Sandy. He didn’t
often admit it; most people didn’t understand. He wasn’t
quite sure why he had now.
Pattie David smiled at him again. ‘I bet you do,’ she said.
Pattie had had a phone call: from a Mrs Lucilla Sanderson.
‘She lives at Bartles House. Poor old soul, she sounded so
upset. She’d read the article in the paper yesterday, and
wanted to know if I thought it was true. She said the
matron kept saying it wasn’t, but she didn’t believe her.’
‘Quite right,’ said Gabriel, sitting down, chewing on a
long stalk of grass. ‘I wouldn’t believe a word that woman said, not even if it was that my name was Gabriel Bingham.’
“This is our home,” she kept saying, “we love it, we
don’t want to move.”’
‘Poor old things. Do you really think it’s true? Or just a
rumour?’
‘We pray it’s a rumour, of course,’ said Pattie, ‘but the
man from the Advertiser kept saying that he’d heard every
objection had been over-ruled. And most important of all,
he said, the developer has offered six more small houses. I
don’t know why that’s so important.’
‘Planning gain,’ said Octavia. ‘It’s a sort of trade-off. You
have to include ten per cent of what’s called socially
affordable housing, along with your executive homes.’
‘You know a lot about this sort of thing, don’t you?’ said
Sandy. ‘I’m impressed.’
‘Oh, it’s the sort of thing I’ve picked up, being married
to …’
‘Married to a sort of politician,’ said Poppy. ‘That’s what
Daddy is. Isn’t he, Mummy?’
‘Well, not exactly.’
‘Daddy is terribly clever,’ said Poppy. ‘He knows so
much about everything. I wish he was here. Don’t you,
Mummy? He could help such a lot.’
‘Yes,’ said Octavia, ‘yes, I expect he could.’
Sandy looked at her thoughtfully; she was flushed. He
saw her glance at Gabriel Bingham, saw him raise his
eyebrows at her imperceptibly. So that was it. Lucky
Octavia; she had someone else to ease her through this
awful thing, she wasn’t quite alone — as he was. He sighed.
He felt very bleak suddenly.
‘We have to stop them,’ said Megan. ‘We really do.’
She was a dear little thing, Sandy thought, so pretty and
frail and quiet, fair like her mother, sitting there in her
wheelchair, watching the other boisterous children, smiling
at them rather like an elderly maiden aunt.
‘How would you suggest we do that?’ he said to her
gently.
‘There are trees for a start. We might be able to get them
preserved.’
‘Now that’s worth a try,’ said Octavia. ‘Good thinking,
Megan.’
‘And the house. The land’s no good unless they knock
that down, is it, Mummy? It’s awfully interesting looking.
Maybe it could be listed.’
‘Darling, I don’t think so. It’s not that old or anything.’
‘Doesn’t have to be old,’ said Gabriel, ‘just special.
Unique. Well uniqueish.’
‘It’s certainly that,’ said Octavia laughing, “twenties
Gothic’
‘Have you tried that one? Getting it listed?’
‘Only as much as to know it’s almost impossible. In
theory. But we can try.’
‘I think you should,’ he said.
Pattie looked at him. ‘Does this mean you’re definitely
on our side, Mr Bingham?’
‘Oh, no. Not definitely.’
‘Your backside must be getting quite sore,’ said Octavia
briskly, ‘sitting on the fence so long.’
He grinned at her lazily. ‘I have my reputation to
consider. My political future. Bartles Wood could come
between me and the premiership.’
‘That’s no contest,’ said Octavia.
They agreed that Pattie should go up to the house, try
and talk to the Fords, and that someone should investigate the possibility of getting the house listed.
‘I’ll do that,’ said Sandy. ‘I know a bit about it. My
parents got their house listed. That stopped a bit of progress,
in the form of a supermarket car park.’
They all stared at him.
‘Sandy! Do you really not mind? It’s not exactly on your
doorstep,’ said Octavia.
‘I know. But I’ve - well, I’ve got a bit of spare time at
the moment. Dickon and I can put our minds to it. Can’t
we, old chap?’
‘That’s so very good of you,’ said Pattie David.
‘Thank you for coming,’ said Octavia as Sandy and Dickon left after family tea.
‘No, Octavia, thank you for having us. It was such a
help. Dickon hasn’t had much fun lately.’
‘No, I don’t suppose he has. Actually, I’ve been meaning
to ask you. We’re having a big charity do in September, at
Brands Hatch. It’s a vintage car day, everyone’s dressing up.
And bringing their children. I’m taking all mine. If you’d
like to come, please do. Dickon would love it.’
‘Yes, he probably would. I’ll let you know, if I may.’ He
was strapping Dickon into his car seat; she couldn’t see his
face. It was an easy time to ask.
‘Have you seen her yet?’
‘No,’ he said, not turning, and she could see he found it
as hard to confront the awful ugly thing that lay between
them as she did. ‘No, not yet. Tomorrow.’
‘I hope it goes well.’
‘So do I,’ he said, ‘for Dickon’s sake.’
Octavia felt suddenly awkward when they had all gone;
when they were reduced to a family-size group. A false
family.
She went upstairs and bathed Minty, gave her a cup of
milk, told the twins to kiss her good night; they scarcely
looked up from the game of jacks Gabriel had brought with
him for Gideon.
She went and tucked Minty up, sat with her for a bit,
watching her drift off to sleep, her small face sweetly
composed. She looked down on the garden; the sun was
still quite strong, but the shadows on the lawn were
lengthening. Gabriel was reading the paper, occasionally
going off to adjudicate in the game; he looked utterly
relaxed, the picture of — what? What was he, for God’s
sake, in her new, strange, unfamiliar life, its new
unworked-out structure? Something permanent? Or something
simply holding it — and her — together while the new,
tenuous forms began to grow strong?
Later they all ate some pasta, and watched Noel’s House
Party; at nine o’clock the twins went reluctantly up to their
room.
She tidied up, poured herself a glass of wine, settled
down with a magazine. Gabriel was amazing with the
children, so patient and such fun, the children seemed to
like him so much.
‘Mummy.’
It was Poppy; her small face oddly taut and wary.
‘Yes, darling?’
‘I can’t sleep.’
Poppy stayed downstairs, sitting sucking her thumb
beside Octavia, reverted suddenly to babyhood, while she
and Gabriel watched the news. She was half asleep.
‘Come on, darling. I’ll take you up.’
‘I’m watching this.’
‘No, you’re not. Come on. You’re so tired.’
‘When is Gabriel going?’ said Poppy, carefully not
addressing him.
‘Oh, pretty soon,’ he said. ‘When this is over.’
She nodded, went rather forlornly upstairs. Octavia went
up after her, tucked her in.
‘He’s not staying tonight, is he?’ said Poppy. ‘He doesn’t
need to, does he?’
‘No, of course he doesn’t.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said carefully to Gabriel when finally they
were alone. ‘I can’t let you stay.’
‘That’s all right,’ he said.
She knew he was disappointed.
‘Could I stay for a bit?’ he said.
‘Well…’ Octavia hesitated. Torn between a desire to
please him, to thank him, a longing to have the comfort of
him, and anxiety about the children, what they might
discern if they awoke. It would hardly be an easy, joyful
piece of lovemaking.
‘Okay,’ he said, interpreting her silence. ‘I understand.
Tell me one thing, though. It will make it easier. Do you — I mean …’
Octavia leaned over, kissed him very hard, very deliberately on the mouth. ‘Oh, Gabriel,’ she said. ‘I do. I really
do.’
Just the same, when he left an hour later, she sensed a
growing impatience, a tension in him. She tried to feel
cool, lighthearted even, about it: but it troubled her quite a
lot. And it was another pressure; just when she didn’t need
it.
‘She’s still quite confused,’ said the matron to Sandy, ‘so
don’t expect too much. But she’s looking forward to seeing
you.’
He hadn’t known what to expect in himself: coldness,
distaste, anger. The sense of total unreality he experienced
when he saw her sitting in a chair by the window, smiling
at them, very pale and thin, but dressed, in trousers and a
pale pink shirt, her hair washed and brushed, Louise again,
not some wretched shell, lying on a hospital bed in a paper
gown, that took him totally by surprise.
She held out her arms; Dickon flew into them.
‘Mummy, you look so better! When are you coming
home?’
Only her voice was changed: somehow slower, rather
quiet and weak. ‘Not just yet, darling. I’m feeling a bit
wobbly. You look wonderful. Daddy’s obviously looking
after you very well.’ She covered his face with kisses. ‘What
have you been doing?’
‘Lots of things. Yesterday we went to see the twins.’
‘The twins! Did you? How were they? How was their
mummy?’
She was showing no sign of tension, of wariness. Just the
rather frail voice.
‘She was all right. Megan was there, a girl in a
wheelchair, she was nice. And Gabriel, the man who plays
cricket.’
‘Oh, really? Was he?’ She hugged Dickon closer, was
silent.
Finally her eyes met Sandy. ‘How are you, Sandy?’ she
said.
‘Oh - fine.’
‘Good. Well, sit down.’ She waved her hand towards
another chair. ‘They’re bringing tea. I asked for chocolate
biscuits, Dickon, for you.’
‘Yeah!’ he said.
It was extraordinary. She had done her nails, was even
wearing lipstick. She smiled and made an effort to chat,
asked Dickon questions about going swimming, asked
Sandy about his business; it was as if she was some close
friend, who knew them well, and who was enjoying an
afternoon tea party, rather than - rather than what?
She put her hand out, put it on his arm; Sandy looked at
it. She had beautiful hands, they were one of the things he
had first noticed about her; now it looked ugly to him, that
hand, ugly and out of place. He had to struggle not to shake
it off.
‘How are you, Sandy?’ she said again.
‘I’m — fine,’ he said. ‘Yes. You know.’
‘It must be very difficult. Managing with Dickon and
everything.’