A Winter's Child (59 page)

Miss Drew had not the least idea. ‘Just talk, dear,' she said, to give herself time to think it over.

Nola talked. The next day she came back and talked again.

‘Oh Lord – am I boring you?'

But Miss Drew, to whom nothing of any significance had ever happened and, therefore, had no problems of her own, was fascinated by the agonies of others.

‘Just talk, dear. It will do you good.'

She talked.

‘I wonder,' said Eunice, ‘what Nola is up to now?'

She had been ripe for conversion to something. An extreme and possibly harsh religion of the walking-barefoot-on-broken-glass variety, had one been available. A political discipline of the far left perhaps? But the Labour Party had grown quite respectable now and Communism had not yet come to Faxby. The sudden naming and acknowledging of her own neuroses sufficed her admirably. Freud – as interpreted by Miss Drew – did not forgive her sins. He explained them. He told her it had never been and could never be her fault, thus making forgiveness unnecessary. Yet, if it were true that each generation unknowingly mutilated its young – and it seemed to be true – then what had she done to her own living sons? And although her neglect of them had its roots in her own childhood, now that she had been made aware of it, now that she knew that she had rejected parenthood because of her disastrous relationship with her own parents, it must surely be her duty to put things right. As their mother she was the first woman in Christian and Conrad's lives. Their relationships with other women would depend on how they had fared with her. And so far there had been no relationship at all, no loving, caring female at the centre of their lives, making of herself a bridge over which they could, in time, successfully cross to the love of other women. What had she done to them? No bridge. No hope of reaching love or even recognizing it if they should happen to encounter it by chance, as she herself had never reached it; never known how to distinguish the true from the false. No ability to feel love, or – perhaps worse – to show it. Like Benedict.

The warehouse in All Saints' Passage became her Mecca. She had found something to believe in. More incredibly, she was on the threshold of finding something to do. And she was in a receptive mood, therefore, when she learned that her younger son, Conrad, had run away from school.

Benedict set off at once for Cheshire to see the headmaster. It had not occurred to him to ask Nola if she wished to accompany him. While the headmaster himself, who was a bachelor and highly nervous with women, was positively gratified by her absence, preferring to deal with any issue of importance, in fact with any issue at all, strictly man to man. No, the boy had shown no signs of being unhappy or unsettled, no sign of anything very much at all. Never communicative, alas, and with such boys it was always hard to tell. Well behaved, of course, co-operative, academically sound, slightly above average and under no pressure, no strain. Nor had there been any ‘incident', any quarrel, any ‘spot of bother' of any kind. He had simply told his brother he was ‘getting out' and had gone. His brother, not being particularly communicative either, had not thought to ask him where or why. Unfortunate really. And so near the end of term too. Clearly the headmaster thought it a great pity that Conrad had not had the courtesy, the consideration, to wait a week or two longer after which it would have been a simple matter of going home for the holidays.

Benedict spent ten minutes alone with his elder son who had nothing to tell him, checked with the local constabulary, the stationmaster, certain shops in the village and came home.

Eunice's boys were called into the study one at a time and taken to task. Had Conrad made friends locally during the holidays or spoken of friends elsewhere? A girl? They looked amazed, would have been inclined, before anyone else, to giggle. No. Conrad did not make friends. Rather to their surprise their stern uncle accepted that.

‘The poor lamb,' wailed Miriam, ‘how am I to sleep tonight, thinking of him wandering about just anywhere?'

‘At least my boys have never run away from school,' murmured Eunice.

‘No need,' snapped Polly, whose temper had been very uncertain since she became a fiancee. ‘They got rid of Justin, didn't they, before he had the chance.'

‘If I can help at all, Benedict, just let me know,' said Toby.

Nobody had anything to say to Nola.

Where could he have gone? Remembering her own boarding schools and her own uneasy childhood home, Claire thought it would be as far away as he could manage from High Meadows. The family closed ranks as families do in times of disaster, Miriam drawing them all around her, looking on the bright side, refusing even to hint at all the dire fates which might befall a boy who was, in a manner of speaking, on the run. ‘At least we are all
together,'
she murmured, ‘which will make it – whatever it is – easier.'

Nola went outside, through the garden, across the sloping meadow which gave the house its name and found her son trudging up the road from Faxby, looking more like a boy, less of a little gentleman, than she had ever seen him, with dust on his shoes and his shirt collar undone, and with no more idea than she had herself of how to get comfortably home unless Parker was waiting at the station.

‘Hello, Conrad.'

For a moment he looked appalled and then, ‘Oh – hello.' He had no idea what to expect from her nor she from him.

They were strangers to each other. And Nola knew there was nothing he could possibly do about that. The lead would have to come from her. Was she up to it? Probably not. Nevertheless,
now
she would have to try. Now – perhaps never again – was her chance to free herself just a little from the guilty voice which was so continually whispering to her; so persistent and shrill, so difficult to silence, these days, even with alcohol. Now – not easily but just possibly – she might redeem herself.

‘You look tired, Conrad.'

‘Yes.'

‘I suppose running away takes it out of one rather. Bit of a lark though.'

He looked at her as if her words had suddenly been translated, as she spoke them, into – Chinese.

‘Aren't you – angry?' Even now in his amazement and his confusion, possibly in his hunger and thirst and his aching feet, he was a boy of clipped speech, few words.

‘No. Not now when I can see you're not dead in a ditch. I wouldn't have taken kindly to that.'

Yet what would it really have meant to her? Last year, very little. With her new soul-scouring honesty, she was forced to admit as much. And now? Yes – now she hoped that it might come to mean a great deal.

‘Why did you do it, Conrad?'

‘I don't know.'

She knew. He had wanted his mother and his father – Not her, of course, and not Benedict, but real parents as neither she nor Benedict had ever been; that warm, caring woman to be his bridge to womankind, that approachable, interested, interesting man with whom he could identify. She could not change Benedict. But –
now
– she could make anything she chose of herself.

She was right, of course. It was, therefore, extremely unfortunate that she had not the least idea how to cope with these new revelations and opportunities other than to be carried away by them, to lose her head over them so that her ‘rightness' sounded wrong, felt wrong, galloped off at once too far and too fast.

‘Do you want to go straight up to the house? Look – hang on a minute – I'll go fetch my car and we can go out to tea somewhere. All right?'

‘All right.' She was his mother and although he was not in the least acquainted with her he did know that a mother ought to be obeyed.

‘Good. I won't be a tick.'

And in her excitement, her great desire to talk to him, to become his friend, his confidante, his healer – to become his mother – all in the space of one afternoon, it did not enter her head to tell anyone that he was found.

It was some two hours later when they returned from the Crown where she had crammed him with pastries and ices and strawberries and cream, watching his enjoyment, hesitant and quiet though it was, with an intent delight.

‘This is my son.'

He was a boy to be proud of. He deserved at least that. And now, if she did nothing else of use in her life, she would – in accordance with the code of All Saints' Passage – advise, assist, and defend him.

Claire was present when she walked into the drawing room at High Meadows, her hand on his shoulder.

‘This is my son.'

‘Oh thank God – thank God!' Miriam's collapse onto a sofa had at least the advantage of occupying Eunice.

‘Let's talk about it in the study,' said Benedict, not unkindly, to Conrad, as the family, with appropriate cries of relief and curiosity, began to press in. And it was very evident, almost comic, that neither the father nor the son expected Nola to go with them.

‘I am his mother,' she said.

‘Yes – of course you are. I beg your pardon.'

The three of them walked out of the room and closed the door.

‘I really can't stay,' said Claire, ‘there's no point – I mean now that he's safe – now that everything's
all right.'

All right? Very far from that as she might have known, did know perhaps, as Parker grudgingly in case there should be any ‘fun', drove her home.

‘Thank God that's settled – if it is settled,' said Toby Hartwell, coming into the lounge bar the following morning.

‘Oh – has he gone back to school then?'

‘Well yes – don't they always? Benedict took him back this morning. Although what Nola means to do about it I wouldn't care to say.'

Claire's smile flickered on and off her face.

‘Why should Nola do anything?'

‘My dear –' Adding a splash of water to his whisky, Toby swallowed liberally and shuddered. ‘Last night, for a moment or two, it looked as if she rather meant to shoot him. Benedict, I mean. A lioness defending her young no less – teeth bared, claws out. Not Nola, I grant you. Or so you'd imagine. But it
was.
Never thought she'd even noticed what was happening to those boys, much less cared about it. But last night, once he'd turned down her offer, she went wild –'

‘Offer?'

‘Oh yes – she made that calmly enough. Came straight out with it. Took my breath away, I can tell you.'

‘I see.'

‘Shouldn't think you do, old girl, for a minute. Not the kind of offer I've ever heard before. Never thought I'd feel sorry for Benedict either, but there it is. One can see he had to turn it down – one
has
to see that. But, just the same, he might not have wanted to. Perhaps I ought to be ashamed to say how well
I
understand that. Freedom – and no strings …'

‘Toby –?' And she was too aghast to wonder why he was smiling at her so very kindly. ‘Could you – just tell me – I mean, what happened – and how – and
where?'

His smile, releasing dozens of fine lines and crinkles around his mouth and his eye corners gave him the face of a wise and kindly elf.

‘Yes, Claire. I see what you mean. In the drawing room would you believe. Not Benedict's idea, of course. He was all set to hold his usual audience in the study but he couldn't keep her there. Or at least not long enough. All of a sudden, just when I'd got Eunice into the frame of mind to go home – leave well alone and all that – there she
was, fitting
the hall – believe me, that's the only word for it, because she took it over as if she'd grown –
expanded.
I've had nightmares about women who did that – giant Miriams and Eunices haunting me all through the night. But never mind that. Asked him if he'd said his final word and, if so, then she was going to say hers, but not shut up in the dark in his study where nobody could hear or judge who was right and who was wrong. She wasn't going to hide the Truth away. Rather sounded to me as if she thought she'd just discovered it – the Truth, I mean – and so she felt under an obligation to tell the world. Poor Nola. Ignorance is bliss don't they say? Or what's that about a
little
knowledge?'

‘They say it's a dangerous thing, Toby.'

‘Quite. So that's what she did. Told the world. Or rather told Benedict, all over again, what she'd obviously told him once or twice already in the study.'

‘With Conrad there?'

‘Oh yes. With Conrad there, pale as death, taking it all in and wishing he'd stayed at school I expect.
And
Eunice and Polly with their eyes popping and Miriam pretending it was all being forced on her attention when really she wouldn't have missed it for the worlds. And Nola, of course, at the centre of the stage, causing a sensation – except that, funnily enough, I don't think she was trying to shock us. No, I don't. I'd say – and you may smile – that she was trying to educate us. Getting it wrong – yes – and fighting a losing battle but … Well. I suppose nobody was in the mood to learn.'

‘Toby –?'

‘Yes my love. I'm getting there. She stood in the middle of the drawing room with her hand on that poor lad's shoulder and told Benedict he could divorce her and she'd supply him with the evidence in triplicate, or words to that effect. Said their marriage was a sham and everybody knew it. Not his fault. Not hers. Sounded as if she rather thought Aaron Swanfield and her own lady mother were to blame. But be that as it may, she'd had enough of it. Wanted to live clean and honest. Turn a new leaf and all that. Don't we all? And she wanted her sons. Just give me my children and I'll be on my way. Little house in the town, local school, heavy diet of good friends and good conversation – had it all worked out. Kind of
avante-garde
Utopia it sounded to me. And being Nola, of course, she didn't specify just who was to pay the bills. Benedict took her up on that, of course, straightaway. Tried his dismissive approach, but she wasn't having it. Got curt with her and tried to walk away, but she just followed him. You'd expect that I suppose, now that she's seen the Light and he hasn't. You know what converts are. In the end he turned on her – one could see it coming –
I
hadn't got the heart to blame him – and told her straight. She'd gone through Greek Dancing and Pottery and Music and Sculpture and the Family Butler and a few other detours on the way – raked the whole lot up and threw it at her – and if she thought she was going to play Motherhood in the same fashion, then she had another think coming. He told her what the law allowed him to do and what he
would
do to stop her. Wasn't pleasant. Had to be done though. I wouldn't describe myself as a fond father but even
I
could see how downright dangerous it would be if all a young fellow had to rely on was Nola. And a bit risky for Nola too, of course, if she had to start relying on herself. Don't honestly see how she'd manage it at this late stage. No halfway decent man could discount that, you know.'