A Friend of the Family

 

A Friend of the Family

 

Also by Marcia Willett

 

 

A Week in Winter

 

A Summer in the Country

 

The Children's Hour

 

The Birdcage

 

First Friends

 

Echoes of the Dance

 

A Friend of the Family

 

 

 

Marcia Willett

 

 

Thomas Dunne Books

 

St Martins Griffin   
   New York

 

 

 

THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin's Press.

 

A FRIEND OF THE FAMILY
. Copyright © 1995 by Marcia Willett. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

 

www.thomasdunnebooks.com

www.stmartins.com

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

Willett, Mareia.

        [Thea's parrot]

        A friend of the family / Marcia Willett.—1st U.S. ed.

             p. cm.

        Originally published under title: Thea's parrot.

        ISBN-13: 978-0-312-30664-9 (trade pbk.)

        ISBN-10: 0-312-30664-4 (trade pbk.)

     1. Widows—Fiction. 2. Man-woman relationships— Fiction. 3. England—Fiction. 4. Friendship—Fiction. I. Title

 

     PR6073.14235T47 2006

     823'.914—dc22                       2006044693

 

First published in Great Britain by Headline Book Publishing,
a division of Hodder Headline PLC, as
Thea's Parrot

 

First U.S. Edition: October 2006

 

10    9    8    7    6    5    4    3    2    1

 

 

To Bridget and Baron

 

 

A Friend of the Family

 

One

 

1985

 

FELICITY MAIN WARING SAT BEFORE
her dressing-table staring at herself critically in the looking-glass. She was forty-five years old and looked fifty. Her scrupulous dieting and rigorous exercise routines ensured that there was not a single extra ounce of weight on her body but where once she had been merely thin she now looked scrawny. Exercise may keep the muscles firm but it doesn't prevent lines from forming or preserve the youth and elasticity of the skin. After the shock of her husband's death from cancer a year ago, she had begun to look her age and dyeing her hair to hide the threads of grey merely served to make her look harder than ever. Unsparing though she was of herself, Felicity couldn't see that the matt black hair aged her and that it was no longer in keeping with her skin tone. She rather liked it and, turning her head slightly, she approved the severe geometric cut that she had stuck to since Mary Quant first made it famous in the sixties. Mark had always admired it; that and the fact that she had never become flabby and careless of her appearance as her friends had. Her success here was partly to do with their decision to remain childless which meant that there was plenty of time and money to be spent on her appearance. Even when Mark's cancer had been diagnosed and he had died shortly afterwards, she had never regretted that decision. It was possible that children might have been a comfort but it was more likely that they would have required consolation themselves and Felicity preferred to look after number one.

It had been a cataclysmic shock. Mark had hardly ever been ill. And he was doing so well in his career. Ever since he had passed out from
Britannia Royal Naval College, he had gone from strength to strength within the submarine service. Great things were promised him: he was, in naval parlance, ‘a flyer'. He had shot ahead of all his oppos such as Tom Wivenhoe, George Lampeter and Mark Webster, and his eyes were firmly fixed on Flag Officer rank and more. So were Felicity's. She could see herself as Lady Mainwaring and had imagined, with enormous pleasure, rubbing Cass Wivenhoe's nose in the dirt. And now it was all over.

Felicity raised her chin, narrowed her eyes and examined her neck. It was there that ageing showed quickest. Turning this way and that, rather like a sharp-eyed bird sizing up its lunch, Felicity studied herself. She'd taken to wearing high-necked jerseys and was delighted with the piecrust-collared shirts that Princess Diana had made the vogue. She found them very flattering. After all, there was no point in letting herself go because her husband had died. Mark would have approved her determination to keep the flag flying. Perhaps it was a little easier for a woman whose husband had been away so much. She was used to being alone and had long since equipped herself with a circle of friends and amusements with which to ward off loneliness and boredom and, if she were to be brutally honest, Mark had become a little dull towards the end, his mind and will so firmly bent on his career. It went without saying that she'd been all for it. Nevertheless, promotion-chasing is a full-time occupation and Mark had become preoccupied and less companionable. She missed him. Of course she did. They had been well matched: shrewd, ruthless, self-seeking. Because they had been so alike there had been no need to dissemble and they had, therefore, found the other's company restful.

Well, it was no good going over and over things. Felicity added a few last touches to her skilfully applied
maquillage
and sat back satisfied. At least she still had George. It was odd that George, who had never married and who had saved Felicity from loneliness on many occasions throughout her married life, had become much less available since the funeral. He had given her to understand that it wasn't
quite the thing, under the circumstances, to advertise their relationship and that they should wait a while before making anything public. Felicity could see the point. George was still in the Navy and it might not do his career any good to be seen stepping quite so hastily into the dead man's shoes. Not that he hadn't tried them on many times in the past. Still, it was sensible not to take any chances. George, who was soon to be finishing his command of a nuclear submarine, would probably be appointed to a desk job at the Ministry of Defence or to HMS
Warrior
at Northwood and, if so, would be looking for a flat. That would be perfect. London was so big and anonymous, unlike the small moorland village a few miles outside Tavistock where Felicity lived in her old Devon longhouse, and where, in the surrounding area, naval families abounded.

Felicity stood up. She would be very much happier when George was settled somewhere and—a very welcome change—on the end of a telephone. Meanwhile, life must go on. She glanced at herself approvingly in the long looking-glass, picked up her bag from the bed and sallied forth.

 

COMMANDER GEORGE LAMPETER FINISHED
his breakfast, pushed back his chair and, nodding to one or two of his fellow officers, went up to his cabin, collecting his post on the way. He glanced at the envelopes as he shut the door behind him. One was from Felicity and one was from his mother. He sighed and opened Felicity's letter first. There were various items of gossip, a reproof for the fact that he hadn't been in touch and a reminder that she was off to stay with a girlfriend in Exeter for a week. George put the letter on his bed and slit the second envelope. His mother was hoping that he might get down to see her when the submarine was in. Neither woman knew that this was already the case. George maintained his freedom by playing his cards very close to his chest and, since he hated scenes and disliked feeling guilty, he tended to avoid close relationships.

It seemed that his mother was anxious to see him. She told him
that she had quite decided she could no longer cope in the Old Station House which was much too big for her now that she was all alone. Nor could she manage the garden with its half-mile of grassed-over track. If George didn't wish to take the house on, then he must arrange to sell it for her. She had made up her mind to move into sheltered accommodation and she would very much like to talk it over with him. George sighed again and rubbed a well-cared-for hand over his smooth, razor-polished jaw. He ought to go to see her. His father had died some years back and George was the only child. His reluctance was explained by the simple fact that she lived nearer to Felicity than George found safe at present.

He'd been rather taken aback by his emotions when Mark Main-waring had died. He'd been shocked, of course. After all, Mark was only the same age as himself, not much over forty, and it had made George think about how transitory life was and other unsettling and unpleasant thoughts. But hardly had poor old Mark been planted than Felicity was making suggestive noises and George was very glad to have the excuse of going back to sea. She'd concurred, rather reluctantly under the circumstances he felt, with his suggestion that it would be in poor taste for them suddenly to make public their relationship—although most of their acquaintance must know about it by now—and had agreed to proceed discreetly for the time being. But what then? There w as no doubt that Felicity would have marriage in mind and not without reason. George had been one of Mark's closest friends and had been deceiving him with his wife on and off for the last twenty years. Hardly surprising then that Felicity should imagine he would now want to legalise the situation. George was rather shocked to realise that he was not at all sure that he wanted her on a full-time basis. Under the right circumstances Felicity could be a wonderful companion. She had a witty, corrosive tongue and was very athletic in bed but would that be enough in a more permanent relationship? George liked a peaceable, ordered existence—which was another reason
why
he had never married—and he knew perfectly well that Felicity could be a harridan. But what could he do? He
could hardly tell her that she was fun as a mistress but that she wasn't what he wanted as a wife. To be fair, there had been several occasions over the years when he had tried to call a halt but, one way or another—often because she made him feel such a heel—he had gone back to her.

He looked again at his mother's letter, remembered that Felicity would be in Exeter for a few days and made a decision. He would go down to Devon to see his mother and try to get things sorted out for her. After all, he had been wondering what to do with his leave and it was only right and proper to put her mind at rest. He might pop in on Felicity afterwards: he'd play it by ear. He glanced at his watch. The trip from the submarine base at Faslane to Tavistock was a long one but he could be there in time for supper. His mind made up, George went to find a telephone.

 

MRS LAMPETER REPLACED THE
telephone receiver and went straight to the kitchen. Even now, with George at forty-three years old and her in her seventies, she was still inclined to look upon him as the schoolboy who had come home for half-terms and holidays and made directly for the larder. But although her first instinct was to feed him up she did not regard him as a child. She looked at him clearly, even ruthlessly, and saw him with a gaze that was unclouded by mother love. She knew his weaknesses. She knew him to be a kindly, vacillating man whose instinct to keep himself out of trouble caused him to take the easy way out. His modus vivendi was to keep his head down in the hope that problems would go away. Just like his father there, of course. Mrs Lampeter, bustling in and out of the larder, clicked her tongue. Old-fashioned enough to imagine that the right wife was the answer, she had almost resigned herself to the fact that she would never be a grandmother: almost but not quite. She knew all about Felicity. She'd met her once and the two women had disliked each other on sight. When she'd heard of Mark's death she had lived in terror of George bringing Felicity home as his wife but a year had passed and Mrs Lampeter had breathed again. She knew quite
well that George was vacillating and had decided that he needed a good sharp kick in the seat of his well-cut flannels with her size four-and-a-half shoe. She suspected that Felicity was merely biding her time until a respectable period of mourning had passed and Mrs Lampeter hoped to get in first.

Having made her preparations for supper, she returned to the telephone and, after peering short-sightedly at her address book, she lifted the receiver and dialled. A young, clear voice answered its ring.

‘Thea, my dear. This is Esme Lampeter . . . Yes, very well indeed, thank you. Could you give a message to your great-aunt for me, dear? . . . That's right. It's exactly that. Could you tell her that I should love to come to luncheon on Wednesday but there's one small problem. George will be home . . . Yes. My son. You've never met but of course he knows Hermione . . . Do you think so? Would you like to ask her? I see him so seldom, you see, that I wouldn't really like to leave him here alone for the day . . . How sweet of you. If you're sure then. He can drive me over. I'm a little nervous on the roads these days . . . And I'm sure that he will love to meet you, too, my dear. Bless you. Wednesday, then. Love to Hermione.'

Mrs Lampeter smiled to herself as she went back to the kitchen. She would never interfere, of course. That was not her way. But a helping hand in the right direction was something else again, something, even, that might be looked upon as a duty.

 

THEA CROUCHED ON THE
club fender and stared into the fire. The Lampeters had gone and after an early supper she and Hermione Barrable had retired to the library. The April evening was cold and the log fire was necessary. Broadhayes was an old granite house built on the edge of Dartmoor not far from Moretonhampstead and none of its inhabitants had ever had the courage to lift its flagged floors or drill through the thick walls to install central heating. Hermione Barrable was used to it. She had lived there for nearly sixty of her eighty-two years and was impervious to the chill. She dressed herself in layers of clothes, winter and summer alike, and looked like nothing
so much as an ageing Siberian peasant. Her husband was long since dead, as was her dearly beloved elder brother who had been Thea's grandfather.

Thea, whose father had the care of a parish in the Shropshire hills, had been brought up in a large, draughty rectory and was as impervious to the cold as her great-aunt. She sat on the fender because that is where she liked to sit. With her red-gold colouring, she glowed in the shadowy room almost as much as the roaring log fire. She was a tall girl, big-boned, long-limbed. Her bright hair was caught back into a thick plait and her amber-brown eyes gazed unseeingly at the leaping flames.

‘I liked George, G.A.,' she said at last and smiled a little to herself.

‘Mmm?' murmured Hermione. Her long-fingered old hand was poised over her patience cards as she sat at her small table. She did not raise her eyes but the murmur had been an encouraging one.

‘I liked the way he was with his mother,' said Thea unexpectedly. ‘He didn't patronise her and pretend that she was some sort of tiresome child. So many people do that to the elderly, don't they? It's as if they think that because they've passed a certain age they've become children again and are uninformed and incapable. It's insulting.'