Presence of Mind (15 page)

‘Because you knew Daddy was watching and was annoyed with Mark anyway.'

‘So what?' she answered pertly. ‘Hasn't it occurred to him that Mark and I occasionally do more than hold hands?'

‘That will do!' I said sharply. She deflated suddenly and turned to watch Lance striding in the direction of the studio.

‘Had I better go after him?'

‘No!' I said quickly, and surprised myself by my vehemence. I added more reasonably, ‘He'll have calmed down by supper time.'

But the tensions of the day were far from over. Briony went up to her room to do some revision and I tried to relax for a while with the Sunday papers, but my mind was too intent on my own problems to take in the world's. Eventually I laid them down and leant my head back, staring moodily up at
Eternal Spring.
Could this really be the source of all the trouble brewing up about us? I had the illogical conviction that it was. By this time tomorrow, Briony would have seen Max. A little tremor of apprehension shivered over me. What would we know tomorrow that as yet we hardly dared to suspect?

I stood up quickly and went outside to lean on the balustrade. Belated sunshine was now gilding the heavy purple clouds and pouring its mellow spotlight on the leaves of the trees. Over by the vegetable garden two pigeons cooed to each other. I hoped they had not been eating the new peas. I walked slowly down the steps and along to the studio. Lance was painting feverishly, his back to me. In the foreground of the canvas sat a figure which was unmistakably Stella, her hair soft and loose, her breast swelling at the low neck of her blouse. Beyond, a cornfield stretched in a riot of colour which suggested evening sunshine as surely as its counterpart out in the garden. Here and there its deep gold was splashed with the vermilion blaze of poppies and in the distance lay indistinct humps of purple hills. The whole painting was vibrant with life, a startling contrast to his last completed canvas of a waterfall in muted greys and blues.

‘ “Behold her single in the field”,' I quoted softly, and he spun round.

‘Hello, I didn't hear you come.' He paused. ‘What do you think of it?'

‘Very striking.'

He turned frowningly back to his painting. ‘Did I make a fool of myself this afternoon?'

‘It wasn't a particularly dignified performance.'

‘That's what I feared. I don't know what got into me. That boy seemed so sure of himself, so
young.
Anyway, I felt he needed teaching a lesson. Whether it came off or not I don't know. If it's any comfort to him, I shall suffer for it tomorrow! I'm seizing up already.'

I started to massage his neck and shoulders, feeling some of the tension ease away. ‘Can't you stop now? It's nearly supper time.'

‘All right. I'll just clean the brushes.'

I turned away, my eyes falling on the untidy pile of sketches and pieces of paper littering the table. What made me lift the top one I'll never know, but immediately below it lay a sketch of the same face that Briony had drawn repeatedly and with such compulsion. Without a word Lance took the paper out of my hand and dropped it back in place, concealing the other. I turned slowly and met his eyes and for a long moment we looked at each other, he seeming to dare me to ask for an explanation, I not daring to.

Then he said heavily, ‘Let's go back to the house.'

Supper was a silent meal. As usual on a Sunday evening, Mrs Rose had laid out a selection of quiches and flans and we helped ourselves. I had the uneasy feeling that Briony was holding herself in check, that inside her a tightly coiled spring threatened to fly apart.

After repeatedly failing in his attempts to catch her eye, Lance said abruptly, ‘Have you forgiven me for this afternoon?'

‘What about this afternoon?'

‘The ill-judged game of tennis.'

‘It was very good. I enjoyed it.'

‘I'm glad someone did,' he replied bitterly, and was unable to stop himself adding, ‘You'll probably have to dispense with your swain's company on the way home from school next week.'

Briony's chin came up. ‘You were rather horrid to him.'

‘He was rather horrid to me, but you didn't kiss me.'

She stared at him for a moment, a flush creeping over her skin. She looked young, disturbed and touchingly unsure of herself. I wanted to scream at them to stop hurting each other, but I could only sit listening to the uneven pounding of my heart.

Lance looked away first, and after a moment she went on eating in silence. I said in a rush, ‘Daddy got on very well with the painting this afternoon' and then could have bitten my tongue out. Suppose she went along to see? Suppose she casually lifted a sketch as I had, to be confronted with her own ‘self-portrait', drawn this time by Lance?

But she merely replied without interest, ‘Good,' and silence settled over us again. The meal over, we returned to the sitting-room. The french windows were still open and the air felt chilly. Lance went over and closed them. Briony selected a magazine and dropped into an easy chair, one leg curled beneath her. I picked up the discarded paper and handed half of it to Lance.

For half an hour or so a kind of peace reigned. I read the film and theatre reviews and turned to the book page. I think it was the quality of Lance's silence rather than Briony's soft humming which finally penetrated my attention. She was still idly flicking through the magazine, apparently unaware of his riveted attention. Yet another crisis was about to be forced upon us, I realised wearily. Once again the role of peacemaker would presumably have to be mine. With a dull sense of inevitability I waited for the storm to break. Even so, when it came I jumped.

‘What's that you're humming?' The question lashed across the room like a jet of steam. Briony laid down her magazine and looked at him in surprise and the gasp I gave seemed to rip my throat apart. For it was no longer Briony who sat there. The nameless thing I had been dreading had actually happened and I saw for myself the stranger who usurped my daughter's place.

Yet what difference was there? As Mark had said, it was hard to pinpoint. Obviously the physical features were the same, yet the attitude, the whole aura was different. The face looked subtly older, more assured, and as I watched unbelievingly a slow smile spread over it, the smile a girl would give not to her father but to a lover, tender, teasing and provocative.

‘You know quite well what I was humming,' she answered softly, and the faint Scottish intonation stabbed at my cringing eardrums. Lance was gazing at her as though mesmerised. He said in a hoarse whisper, ‘Sing the words.'

Softly and indescribably sweetly, she did so:

‘ “And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve,

And fare-thee-weel, a while!

And I will come again, my Luve,

Tho' 'twere ten thousand mile! ” '

I knew it, of course. It was the last verse of the lovely song by Robert Burns, ‘My Luve is like a red, red rose.' But in the hush of that listening room, with the picture on the wall seeming to pulsate with a life of its own, it came across the years as a clear promise. ‘I will come again, my Luve –'

With a muffled sound Lance bowed his head into his hands. I sat unmoving, my straining eyes on the girl's face. And as I watched, the consciously provoking smile faded and a tremor shook the image like a pebble shivering the reflection in a pond. A faintly puzzled expression emerged, followed quickly by fear. Across Lance's bent head, Briony's own questioning eyes met mine as her tips framed the words, ‘What happened?'

I shook my head helplessly. She said aloud, alarm in her voice, ‘Daddy?'

Slowly he raised his white, haunted face to stare at her.

‘What is it, Daddy? Are you ill? Will someone please tell me what's the matter?' Her voice began to rise.

‘Nothing,' I said at last, from a great distance. ‘It's all right, darling, Daddy's only tired. The tennis wore him out more than he'll admit.'

Lance made a supreme effort and smiled. ‘Yes, I'm only tired,' he repeated mechanically. My heart ached for him. I knew he doubted the reality of what he had seen, but how could I reassure him, at Briony's expense?

After a moment, as her eyes flickered from his face back to me, she said, ‘I'm tired, too. I think I'll go to bed.' She stood up, hesitated, then came to kiss us each in turn. Lance sat like a statue. I said, ‘Good-night, dear, sleep well.'

The door closed behind her. As though released from a spell, Lance stood up and lumbered blindly towards the french windows.

‘No!' I said ringingly. He stopped and turned in surprise. ‘You always run away, don't you?' My voice shook dangerously. ‘At the first sign of something wrong, you make for the studio like a wounded animal for its lair. Doesn't it ever occur to you that I haven't any sanctuary other than you?'

He stood staring down at me and I could see him struggling to free himself from the strands of the nightmare he had just lived through in order to take in what I was saying.

I stood up. ‘Lance, I need you. Please don't go.' The tortured incomprehension in his eyes was almost more than I could bear. I said more gently, ‘Darling, you weren't dreaming and you're not insane. I saw it too.' He was still standing in the middle of the room and I went over to him and put my arms tightly round him. I might have been holding a block of stone. ‘Whatever it seemed like, she's ill. That's all it is. There are times when she doesn't know what she's doing. It won't help if we panic. We must just try to stay calm and help her all we can. Darling, don't look like that!' My voice shook again. I reached up and kissed him on the mouth. His skin felt cold and clammy. There was no response. ‘Sit down and I'll pour you a drink.'

I went to the cabinet and took out two glasses, listening intently for the sounds of movement which would tell me he was responding more normally. To my untold relief I heard him stumble back to his chair. When I handed him the glass of brandy he was almost composed apart from his pallor. His eyes met mine gravely.

‘I'm sorry, Ann. You're quite right, I'm a selfish devil.'

‘I didn't say that,' I protested gently.

‘But it's true. As you said, I run away and leave you at the first hint of trouble. I must have let you down countless times over the years. It's a wonder you've stayed with me.'

‘Oh now look, there's no need to go on like that! All I meant –'

‘I know what you meant, but all the same it's been a pretty one-sided affair, this marriage, hasn't it? I wonder how many times you've regretted agreeing to it.'

‘Lance, please! I've
never
regretted it!'

He said unsteadily, ‘I had the best of intentions, you know. I only wanted to look after you and – and Briony. I thought it would work.'

‘And hasn't it?' My whispered challenge seemed to echo round the room.

He took a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine. Then he said quietly, ‘You tell me.'

And at that moment, probably the most important we had faced in sixteen years, the telephone began to ring. I was incapable of moving. Lance went to answer it. I heard the tone of his voice change, become incredulous and animated. I didn't hear what he was saying. I don't think if I'd been standing right next to him that I would have heard. The conversation seemed to go on a long time. ‘I thought it would work,' he'd said. And, ‘You tell me.' And beneath the surface of that hurt was the terrifying strangeness in Briony.

‘Ann!' He had come back at last, an excited smile on his face. ‘You'll never guess who that was! Do you remember hearing me speak of Gordon MacIntyre? We exchange Christmas cards every year. He was my great friend at art school – a wonderful character. I haven't seen him for twenty years! He was phoning to say he has to be in London for a couple of days next week and could we meet. I told him he must stay here, with us.'

He had completely forgotten what we'd been talking about when the phone rang. Seemingly unaware of my silence, he added enthusiastically, ‘You'll like Gordon. Lord, I can hardly believe it! Old Gordon, after all these years!'

In his excitement he didn't seem to register, as I had immediately done, that yet another piece of the past, of that threatening, unknown world of the art school, was about to encroach on our beleaguered present. But I realised it, and the knowledge brought nothing more positive than an anaesthetised acceptance.

The next morning, though I would have liked to stop them both, Lance went to college and Briony to school. At breakfast there had been a new wariness between them. Lance was again dressed in what I assumed were new clothes, this time an electric blue denim suit, a soft shirt and wide floppy tie. He looked smart but somehow slightly off-key, as though the style were rather too young for him. Some comment seemed called for, so I remarked lightly, ‘You're looking very trendy again. When did you splash out on this new wardrobe?'

‘Last week. Do you like it?' The question was addressed to Briony.

She nodded without much interest. ‘Mark has one rather similar.'

Lance flushed but all he said was, ‘I presume you want a lift?

‘If you don't mind.' I noticed she had hardly eaten anything. ‘I'll get the car out. See you later, Ann.'

‘I might not be in when you get back,' I said quickly, and at his look of enquiry, added rather less than truthfully, ‘Briony has to see the doctor again this evening.' When he had gone out, I added, ‘I'll pick you up as near school as I can park. And please darling take things gently. Don't be in too much of a hurry to catch up on what you missed.'

She smiled briefly and was gone. I poured myself another cup of coffee and tried to forget the appointment which hung over us. At nine o'clock Moira Cassidy tapped on the door and put her head round. ‘I'm so glad Briony's home safely. Did you find out what happened?'