Beyond the Green Hills (29 page)

Clare listened, delighted by Ginny’s liveliness. She went on to talk about going to London to stay with friends of her mother when Andrew was able to find the money for her plastic surgery, but finding out something about Andrew himself was proving much more difficult than Clare had expected. She waited patiently. When Ginny paused to drink her coffee, she took her opportunity.

‘So is Andrew farming at Drumsollen?’

‘Goodness no,’ she said laughing. ‘What made you think of that? He’s working as a solicitor in Armagh. Drumsollen’s been shut up since The Missus died back in May. I expect he’ll have to sell it. He probably needs the money for the death duties, like with The Lodge. The Lodge isn’t on the market yet. He says it’s not fit to sell till it’s had a facelift. It’s had nothing done to it for years. Good old Harry
just fixed things and kept them going. You remember Teddy tackling the sitting room, don’t you? No, there’s no chance he can keep it. Drumsollen will have to go.’

‘Charles, how lovely you could come,’ she said, putting down her book and walking up to him, as he strode into the foyer and looked around. She kissed his cold cheek and brushed flakes of melting snow from his shoulders. ‘Sorry about the short notice. And the weather,’ she said lightly.

‘Not a bit, I’m just so pleased to see you. What’s Robert up to?’

‘He hasn’t told me,’ she said, laughing. ‘But if he appears with a parcel under his arm, don’t be surprised. He went off yesterday afternoon and came back asking if I’d mind staying a few hours longer. There was some business he had to complete after this morning’s meeting. So we’re on the evening flight, not the afternoon one. Now, have you time for a drink first, or have you only got an hour?’

Charles Langley threw out his hands.

‘I am yours to command,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I’ve run away, absconded. Absent without leave. Till about four o’clock anyway,’ he added, with a wry smile.

‘Oh that’s lovely. I want to hear
all
your news.’

They settled comfortably and began to talk, moving easily between business and more personal matters. The Covent Garden project which had first brought them together was going from strength to
strength, even better than anyone had expected.

‘Do you still get fed up with the importing business, Charles?’

‘Yes, I do,’ he said honestly, leaning back in his armchair and twirling the stem of his sherry glass. ‘But there are compensations. I fly at weekends. And I didn’t have to come in a taxi,’ he said laughing. ‘I’ve got a new car. An actual new car, not off the second-hand lot.’

‘Oh that’s great news. I know how much you enjoy driving. You had the odd bad moment that day you took me on a Langley’s Tour. On the steep hills.’

‘And how. Wish I could whiz you round in the new one.’

‘Ah, but there were advantages to the old one. I could take in the countryside. All those lovely patches of woodland and green fields. I sometimes think of your bit of England when we’re doing vineyards in the south of France. “England’s green and pleasant land”, as my school hymn would have it.’

‘But your school was in Ireland. How come you sang ‘Jerusalem’?’

Clare laughed and shook her head.

‘I haven’t the remotest idea, Charles, but I always sang it with passion. I think I miss
my
green and pleasant land.’

‘Do you?’ He looked at her in amazement.

‘Wouldn’t you miss yours?’

‘Well, yes. I suppose I would. Never thought of it before.’

She smiled to herself, amused by the directness
and the honesty of the man, who had always told her the truth, even when it was to his own disadvantage.

‘Say you inherited a nice French château,’ she began cheerfully. ‘Lots of lovely vineyards running nicely. Guaranteed income, very large. Oh, and an airfield nearby for your private plane,’ she added, as the thought struck her. ‘But you had to go and
live
there. What would you do?’ she said, looking him straight in the eye.

‘You do ask them, don’t you?’

She giggled.

‘Well …’ he said, opening the menu the waiter had just brought.

‘If you like pasta, it was great yesterday,’ she said, helpfully.

‘Mm … yes, good idea.’

‘Can I choose the wine, or will you?’

‘You choose. I’m too busy walking round the vineyard I’ve inherited to see if I like its wine.’

‘Well?’ she asked, after she’d chosen a Châteauneuf-du-Pape she’d tasted in the vineyard near Avignon.

‘Perhaps I could commute,’ he suggested. ‘Château in France and cottage on the Downs? How about that?’

‘No, it has to be a real choice. No sneaky compromises.’

‘Oh well, sad as it is, all that lovely wine and lolly, I’d choose the Downs.’

She laughed happily. ‘Oh Charles, I’m so glad. I thought it was only me that got homesick when I’d everything I could ever wish for.’

‘You?’ he said, amazed. ‘But I thought you loved France.’

‘No, I like France; I do like it very much. I find it interesting and often very beautiful. It’s Paris that I love, not France. But sometimes, even in Paris, I long for my little green hills. That day you took me out, I think it was homesickness that suddenly came upon me when we got back to your nice house.’

He smiled wryly. ‘To my advantage.’

‘To
our
advantage, Charles,’ she said gently. ‘I won’t ever forget how loving you were.’

The wine waiter arrived, poured a taster into Charles’s glass and stood back. Charles sipped it, looked severe and nodded.

‘He should have let you taste it, given you chose it,’ he said, as soon as the waiter was out of earshot.

She shook her head and smiled.

‘Still a man’s world, Charles, for all the talk of equality and women’s rights. But it’s coming on a bit. At least I can ring you up and ask you to lunch. My treat. What do you think of the pasta?’

‘Great, just great. I’ve had worse in Italian restaurants. And I like this wine too, now that I’m not being asked to taste it.’

Clare was pleased that Charles could be so relaxed and easy with her. It hurt her still to remember how downcast he was when she told him she wasn’t the right woman for him, however easy it would be to love him. It wasn’t that they wouldn’t get on well together – they would. But after the first joy of having someone to be with, someone to love, she knew they’d end up feeling lonely all over again.
What Charles needed was someone like Ginny, someone far more outgoing than she was.

She watched him as he ate, enjoying his pasta, as he enjoyed so many things.

She knew she’d made him sad, and yet, by the time he’d taken her back to her hotel, he’d been able to take the friendship she’d offered. He’d hugged her and kissed her cheeks like a Frenchman.

‘You are a funny one, Clare Hamilton,’ he’d said. ‘Here I am ready to die for you and you turn me round and point me in a different direction. At the bottom of it, I know you’re right, damn it, yet I can’t think how I know. Don’t desert me, will you?’

She had promised willingly. ‘Of course I won’t. I’ll come and dance at your wedding. And you can come to mine, should I ever marry.’

‘Thank you,’ she now said, as the waiter set down a tray of coffee and presented a document for her to sign.

She wrote her name and wondered if she would ever change it. Marriage had looked so easy when she and Andrew got engaged, but it had somehow become a much more problematic thing. Threatening, as well as promising. She would never forget how much she loved Christian Moreau, nor the frightening prospect which had opened up at the thought of being married to him.

‘I haven’t asked you about John and Jane Coleman,’ she said, suddenly remembering the anxieties of that visit.

‘Oh, they’re fine. Absolutely besotted with son and heir. They’ve asked us to be godparents at his
christening next month.’

She looked at him sharply, and laughed when he suddenly looked sheepish.

‘All right. Confession,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘I
was
going to tell you. Her name’s Lindy. She says it’s short for Lindbergh. We met at the flying club. We went climbing in Scotland in October and things took off rather. She’s been rather badly let down herself, so we’re not rushing it, but when we do name the day you’ll be the first to know.’

‘Oh Charles, what lovely, lovely news. That’s the second piece in two days. I saw an old friend from home yesterday and she’s getting married here in June. Perhaps we could meet up when I’m over for that.’

‘Great, I’d like you to meet Lindy. They say good news goes in threes. That leaves you,’ he said, looking at her meaningfully.

She smiled, offered him more coffee and refilled their cups.

‘Oh, I’ve had my good news,’ she said quickly. ‘Do you remember I told you about Robert Lafarge losing his wife and daughter in 1940 when the Germans invaded?’

‘Yes, yes I do. There was a son as well, but he’d never been able to trace him.’

‘It looks as if he’s found him,’ she said, beaming. ‘It’s an extraordinary story, one way and another. Robert had no sooner signed on with the agency than they contacted him about a young man who’d approached them several months earlier. He’d been trying to find his father and he’d seen Robert’s
picture in a newspaper. The details fitted perfectly. The photographs the agency sent were so like Robert it was incredible. If he arrives back with half a dozen pictures for his collection, I wouldn’t be surprised, he’s so excited about it all,’ she ended up, laughing.

‘That really
is
splendid. I always felt rather sorry for old Lafarge. He’s fond of you, but he must know darn well he’ll lose you one of these fine days.’

‘Yes, he does, but maybe not just yet. He’s offered me a job on the financial side from next October.’

‘Whee …’ Charles shook his head and put down his coffee cup. ‘My goodness, Clare, you
are
going it. Will you take it? Will I have to come and grovel if I need new lorries?’

She shook her head. ‘I honestly don’t know. It’s a big vote of confidence, but I actually enjoy being Robert’s assistant, whether it involves translation or not. I certainly wouldn’t leave Paris for one of the regional branches.’

She glanced out of the window and saw the snow had begun to fall again, big, soft flakes out of a grey sky. The trees in Park Lane were already lightly covered, the traffic throwing up wet spray where the feathery flakes had turned to slush.

‘I’ll think about it in the springtime, Charles. I always think better in the spring.’

T
he spring of 1960 came for Clare, neither on the Champs Elysées with Louise, nor in the Bois de Boulogne with the St Clair family, but in the Dolomites, in a small skiing resort that turned itself into a conference centre as soon as the first of the snow began to melt. After three dull, cloudy days, well matched by the series of lectures Clare had endured, the sun suddenly appeared.

She could hardly believe it when she drew back her curtains and opened the shutters. Dazzling white, the mountains rose into a clear blue sky, but below their precipitous peaks, the upland meadows, still snow-covered the day she’d arrived, now emerged green and fresh, so close in the clear mountain air she felt she could lean out of her window and touch them.

She stood in her dressing gown, breathing in the sharpness of the air, feeling the warm touch of the sun on her face. A little way below her, between a pair of older wooden houses, she saw a narrow path leading up towards the high meadows. The cattle were still indoors, but a few days more and they would be moved up the path to their summer pastures.

She’d never been here in summer, but there’d been enticing pictures in the brochure advertising the financial management course that Robert had felt she should attend. It was the easiest thing in the world to imagine the meadows full of flowers, pink and yellow and blue, whose names she knew in English and French, German and Italian, but whose delicate blooms she’d never seen or touched.

Feeling a sadness she couldn’t explain, she turned away reluctantly from the window, showered, dressed and collected up the folder of papers for the morning’s seminar. It would no doubt be valuable. Like all the sessions she’d already sat through, it would focus on some aspect of the economic developments the Treaty of Rome had brought to Europe.

Given how quickly things were changing, it would be useful to know precisely what was going on in the other European countries. She would listen, make notes, ask pertinent questions, and wonder if she might hear the sound of cow bells before she flew back to Paris.

She breakfasted with an earnest young German who had a particular interest in iron and steel, escaped as soon as she decently could and walked down the road to the largest of the new hotels where those who skied by day danced at night. This week, however, its vast ballroom accommodated well-dressed students from every part of Europe. With the heavy curtains shutting out the sunlight, the only peaks in view were the projections of economists and financial experts.

As she came level with the little path, she glanced at her watch, crossed the road and walked a short way on its rough, frost-shattered surface. Despite her high heels and the slim skirt of her costume, only a few minutes away from the main street, she found she had stepped into a different world.

The tall gable of a shallow-roofed house cast a dark shadow on the path, so that she shivered in the crystalline air, but ahead of her, beyond its barns and outhouses and their sheltering trees, she could see the lowest of the meadows. A moment later, she moved out of the shadow, stepped off the path and stood on the edge of the soft, green grass, the sunlight pouring round her, its warmth like the comfort of an embrace.

The view was different than from her hotel bedroom, but the elements were the same, the high peaks soaring into the clear air, their swelling shoulders shining with melting snow, the lower slopes green, so strikingly green after the city streets and the lifeless, grey vistas of the last three days.

‘I’ll make up my mind in the springtime,’ she said to herself, as she moved quickly back to join the last few hurrying figures on their way to begin work.

The first wisps of cloud floated past the cabin window. They were beginning to lose height already. This was the point when the brilliant, sunlit snowfields that still made her think of Canada were suddenly transformed into grey, enveloping murk. She hated this bit, trapped and enclosed, until land appeared and she heard the wheels come down.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we will shortly be arriving at Aldergrove Airport. Will you fasten your seatbelts and extinguish all cigarettes …’

She listened attentively to an unmistakably Ulster voice pronouncing the familiar words with as much care as if she were speaking a foreign language. At any other time, it would have made her smile. But not today.

As they sank through the cloud, she went over again the sequence of events that had brought her back to Ireland on an April morning when she should have been preparing for a visit to Lyons.

‘Mam’selle, I regret there is a telegram. I hope it is not bad news.’

Perhaps it was the echo of that phrase ‘mauvaises nouvelles’, the sudden remembrance of her grandfather’s death, or simply the look of distress on Madame’s face as she put the envelope in her hand, but she felt a sudden wave of panic, an overwhelming sense that her life was about to fall to pieces.

All she remembered was ripping open the envelope and reading the short message.

‘
Jessie
poorly. I need you badly. Please ring. Harry
.’

Her hands had trembled so much, she’d dropped her address book on the floor when she went to find their home number. She’d phoned Harry when she’d been in London in February, but the last time she’d phoned Belfast from Paris was the morning her degree results came out. It still took an eternity
of time to get through.

Jessie had been in bed for a week now. The gynaecologist had said there was no specific problem
he could discover, but she was badly run down. Unless she built up her strength before her labour she might lose the child. That was bad enough, but what came over in waves as Clare listened to Harry was his real fear that he was going to lose Jessie herself.

The moment she put down the phone she unpacked her suitcase, sorted the contents and immediately repacked it. She’d thought of ringing Robert at home, but it was already late. There was nothing to be done before morning. She’d spent a long, restless night, short patches of dream-filled sleep alternating with hours of lying wide-eyed, going over and over every detail of her last visit to Belfast, all that had happened to Jessie since the evening when the four of them had dined together in the new home and Jessie had asked her and Andrew to be godparents to the coming baby.

She dressed for work as usual, but took her suitcase with her and went up to Robert’s room as soon as Paul let her know he was in.

‘You must go, of course,’ he said, picking up his phone. ‘Denise, book a flight to Belfast via London for Mam’selle ’Amilton, an open return for the first possible flight. Allow enough time for her to get to Orly by car.

‘I think your dear Jessie may need you for some time, perhaps even until her child is born, which you say is maybe a month away. You must stay till then, if you feel it necessary. But keep me informed. I shall be concerned for you and for her. Write or telephone, whatever is convenient. Do you have any sterling?’

She admitted she hadn’t even thought about money. Looking at him, as he stood by his desk, ready to do anything he could to help her, the tears sprang to her eyes. They dripped on the lapels of her moss-green costume, sitting on the surface of the close-textured fabric as if she’d been caught in a shower of rain.

‘There now, my dear. It is hard for you. Take courage,’ he said, as she took out a minute handkerchief from the equally minute pocket of her jacket. ‘I have only a little knowledge of the problems of pregnancy, but there is one piece of advice I must give you. Keep up your spirits. Do not allow your own anxiety to take away your warmth, or your humour. These may be the medicines that Harry and Jessie have most need of,’ he said, as he took her hand and held it for a moment.

‘Bon voyage,’ he continued, quietly. ‘And a happy return. I shall miss you. I shall think of you. I may even light a candle for you. You will not mind that, will you?’

‘I should like that, Robert,’ she said, mopping her eyes again. ‘I think I shall need all the help I can get. Thank you,’ she said, leaning forward and kissing his cheek. ‘I’ll come back as soon as I can.’

By the time she’d walked down to reception, Paul was already waiting with a hundred pounds in sterling, an authorisation for setting up an English bank account for her to sign, and her suitcase. Denise had the number of the tickets awaiting her at the
BEA
desk at Orly.

While Robert’s chauffeur brought the car to the
front of the building, she ran back to her office, but Louise was already on the way to the banking hall to meet her. She’d spoken to Paul and had come to kiss her goodbye.

The plane’s descent steepened. Only five hours ago, she’d been driving through Paris at the end of the morning rush hour. She saw below her now, in misting rain, a patchwork of tiny fields, the white shapes of cottages and farms slipping away under the wing. As the grey murk dissolved they made a wide sweep over Lough Neagh.

She stared out at the flat grey waters, calm in the light, drifting drizzle, and saw a cart track leading to a small beach, a framework of poles covered with nets hanging up to dry. It might be the place they had picnicked; it might be another beach just like it. After all the anxiety and distress, to her sudden surprise, she felt steadier than she’d felt at any time since yesterday’s call to Harry.

The wheels touched the wet runway, the engines roared and they taxied towards the newly completed airport buildings. In the rich grass verges of the new runways, the hares scattered as the Vanguard moved past. A few minutes later, they resumed their interrupted feeding as if nothing whatever had happened.

In spite of all Harry had told her, Clare was still shocked when she saw Jessie propped up on her pillows. Earlier, Harry said, she’d tried to come downstairs to be there when she arrived, but the effort was too much for her. She’d had to go back to bed.

‘Hallo, Jessie,’ she said gently, as Harry pushed open the bedroom door. ‘Harry said you weren’t feeling great.’

Ginny’s scars had been hard to bear, but she found the paleness of Jessie’s face and the blue smudges under her eyes every bit as bad. She heard Harry slip out of the room behind her. She moved closer to the limp figure lying back on the pillows and saw tears streaming down her face.

‘What is it, love? What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong,’ she said, perching on the side of the bed and putting her arms round her.

‘I think I’m goin’ to die, an’ what’ll Harry do wi’ wee Fiona?’ she sobbed, clutching Clare as if she’d never let her go.

‘Who said anything about dying, Jessie? Who told you that?’

‘Oh, nobody says it, but they’re all that nice to me, the doctors and the nurse that comes. An’ I feel so awful. I’m sure I’m goin’ to die.’

‘And I’m absolutely certain you’re not,’ said Clare firmly. ‘If you go and die on me, I’ll never forgive you.’

Jessie stopped sobbing and looked up at her for the first time.

‘What makes you think that?’

‘Think what?’

‘That I won’t die.’

‘Sure you know only the good die young,’ she replied matter-of-factly. ‘Unless you’ve got religion since I went away, I’d have said you were safe as houses.’

Jessie stopped crying. Her eyes were still wet, her face thin and peaky, her lovely, wavy brown hair, lank and unwashed, but a touch of the old Jessie suddenly broke through as she grinned and said, ‘Yer lookin’ great. Ye diden buy that suit at C and A’s, did ye?’

Clare laughed and the moment she did, Jessie laughed too. Coming up stairs with a tray of tea, Harry couldn’t believe his ears.

‘What’s the joke?’ he asked.

‘Go on, show him,’ said Jessie, poking Clare with surprising vigour. ‘Take it off an’ show him.’

Clare stood up and slid off the jacket of her costume, turning it so that Harry could read the label.

‘I thought they made perfume,’ he said vaguely, as he looked round the room for somewhere to put down the tray.

‘Would ye listen to him, Clare,’ she said, raising her eyes heavenwards in a familiar gesture. ‘That, Harry,’ she said, pointing to the label, ‘is a famous dress designer, and Madam here said in one of her letters he makes all the overalls for her firm. Could ye believe her?’

Clare slept well that night, whether from relief or sheer exhaustion, she couldn’t tell, but she woke early next morning and tried to think through what she ought to do. Jessie was indeed in a bad way, but something had changed since her last visit. Then, she’d been physically well but abstracted, totally preoccupied with Fiona. She’d often been sharp
with Clare, reluctant to sit down and talk. This time, she was very unwell, but in many ways she was much more the direct and affectionate Jessie she had once known.

‘She told me the other day you were the only one who could help her,’ said Harry, as they washed up together later that evening.

‘Did she say why, Harry?’

‘No, I couldn’t get her to say another word. I don’t think she knew herself, to tell you the truth.’

‘And the gynaecologist and the doctor have no suggestions?’

‘The doctor said it might be some personal matter. He suggested our minister of religion,’ he said, raising an eyebrow.

‘How did that go down?’

‘Not well,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But I tried. I’ve tried everything, Clare,’ he said, a dangerous catch in his voice.

‘I know you have, Harry,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Now look, if she says I can help her, then probably somehow or other I can, even if I’m just as in the dark as you are. But we’ve got to keep our spirits up. That’s the advice my boss gave me before I left. Let’s make up our minds it’s going to be all right, and see what we can do. How about it?’

‘Whatever you say, Clare. You’re the boss this time. I’ll do whatever you tell me.’

The week that followed was one of the grimmest Clare had ever spent. Each morning Jessie would wake up in despair and lie weeping till Clare came
and sent Harry off to make his own breakfast. Each morning, she’d talk to her, encourage her, help her to do her hair, put on make-up. By afternoon, Jessie was in good spirits, able to get up, play with Fiona when her grandmother brought her to visit, eat a proper meal in the evening. But next morning, the despair had returned as if nothing were any different.