Presence of Mind (3 page)

‘Only five minutes or so. Rosie's bringing me a cup of tea when she's made Daddy's.'

‘You're looking tired, darling.' I tried to keep the anxiety out of my voice. ‘You've not had another of your headaches, have you?'

‘No, not today. Do you know, Mother, I've just been thinking I'd rather like to do a bit of painting myself.'

I stared at her in surprise. ‘My dear child, you can't even draw a straight line!'

‘That's no reason why I shouldn't start now. Look at Grandma Moses! Oh, not till after A's of course, but it would be something to do when all the studying's over.' She glanced at me and gave a little laugh. ‘You know, it was rather odd. I was looking at the painting a minute ago, and I suddenly thought, “It's far and away the best thing I've done”! Wasn't that strange, as if I'd painted it myself?'

I said evenly, ‘Actually I'm glad you didn't. I've never liked that picture very much.'

‘Really? Why ever not?'

‘I don't know. It depresses me, all those poor souls shut outside and the uncaring lovers in the garden. It seems – egotistical, somehow.'

‘Because Daddy is one of the lovers?'

My eyes went quickly to her innocently questioning face. ‘I don't know,' I answered slowly. ‘That hadn't struck me before.'

‘I'd always somehow assumed that he was.'

Perhaps, I thought painfully, my fear and dislike had no more basis than that. Nothing sinister after all, merely subconscious resentment of Lance in that lyrical garden with – someone else. Now that I looked more closely, the male figure certainly had fair hair.

I said quickly, ‘Whatever the reason, I've never liked it, though I realise I'm in a minority of one. It's just bad luck that it happens to be my wall that it hangs on! I'm always hoping Daddy'll accept one of these astronomical offers people keep making for it. Think what we'd save in insurance premiums!'

Behind me Mrs Rose said, ‘Here's the master's tea, ma'am' and I took the tray out of her hands. ‘Yours is in the kitchen, Miss Briony.'

‘Thanks, Rosie. I'll come and have it now.'

I went through the open french windows and down the terrace steps. The shadows lay across the grass, subtly altering its shades of green. I had become very colour-conscious since Lance came into my life.

The studio had originally been the stable block and was screened from the house by a high bank of sweet-smelling shrubs. Its modernisation had included washing facilities and an electric hob for making tea or even boiling eggs if Lance didn't want the interruption of returning to the house for meals. Double-glazed windows ran the length of two walls, but in today's sunshine he had flung them open and was at his easel with his shirt unbuttoned to the waist.

He looked up at my approach and smiled. ‘That looks good. Thank you. I'd no idea of the time. Is Briony home?'

‘Yes. She's just had her usual meditation in front of the painting.' I felt him glance at me sharply but kept my eyes on the tray as I bent down and put it on the table beside him.

‘How's the magnum opus?'

‘Oh –' He ran a hand through his thick hair. ‘Not so bad, I suppose. I still break out in a cold sweat when I remember there are three more to do before the end of June. By the way, are the Pomfretts coming on Sunday?'

‘I imagine so. Why?'

‘I'd like a word with Stella. It's just a vague idea at the moment, but I think I could work her into a painting. Do you think she'd let me try?'

‘I imagine she'd jump at it,' I returned drily. ‘Most people have to pay through the nose for the privilege!'

‘It wouldn't be strictly a portrait, more a – representation, but I've often thought I'd like to capture her on canvas. She has a lovely face and perfect bone structure, but it's that superb colouring I'm after.'

‘I never knew you cared!' I said with brittle flippancy.

He laughed. ‘Don't worry, it's professional interest only. She's not my type.'

But nor am I, I thought achingly. And whether Stella was his type or not, I didn't doubt that he was hers. Like most of my women friends, she played up to him almost unconsciously. I really couldn't blame her. Lance must seem a romantic figure to them, tall and fair with steady, deep-set grey eyes and his slow smile, quite apart from the added ingredient of his considerable fame as an artist. I was fully aware of the envy I aroused. They weren't to know that my own relationship with him was scarcely more intimate than theirs. I for my part passionately envied Stella the prospect of long hours ahead in this sweet-smelling seclusion with Lance.

‘What do you want her to represent?'

‘I'm not sure exactly. Woman through the ages type of thing the eternal female – earth mother. Anyway, I'll see what she says. Oh, and before I forget, I met rather a pleasant chap at the golf club yesterday. Forrest, his name was. I told him if he and his family would like to come along on Sunday we'd be pleased to see them. They haven't been here long and don't know many people.'

‘How many children has he?'

‘Twin daughters, I believe. Briony probably knows them, they'll be about her age.'

‘So that's the Pomfretts and ourselves – seven – and this new crowd, eleven – and Cynthia and Edgar are bound to come – thirteen, and of course Mark.'

Lance frowned and drained his cup. ‘I'm not too keen on Briony seeing quite so much of that young man.'

I smiled wryly. ‘And what's wrong with this one?'

He met my eyes defensively. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Oh come on, Lance! You know you find faults with all of them. The fact is you don't like Briony seeing much of
anyone
except –' Somehow I managed to swallow back ‘you' and substitute ‘us'.

‘She's too young to be tied up with boys,' he said stubbornly.

‘She's nearly eighteen. What do you expect?'

For the first time the thought flashed through my head: what will happen when Briony eventually gets married? Will our own marriage be able to withstand her loss, or will it simply crumble away to nothing? I looked down at Lance's tanned slightly frowning face in sudden fear. Almost academically I wondered what his reaction would be if I took his head between my hands and kissed him hard on the mouth. Embarrassed surprise, probably. As far as he was concerned, our marriage was what he had always intended it to be – a pleasant enough way of keeping Briony at his side. In all fairness he had never pretended otherwise.

I gave my head a quick little shake, picked up the empty cup and left him. He did not try to detain me. Across the garden the house stood waiting, gracious and dignified. As I regained the height of the terrace I could see over the stone wall which surrounded the pool and its sunbathing area, and caught sight of Dick, the younger gardener, busy with the filters. Fleetingly I wondered whether to have a swim before dinner and decided against it.

Averting my eyes from the painting, I went swiftly back through the sitting-room to return the tray to Mrs Rose.

I didn't sleep well that night. Worries which could be forced beneath the surface during daylight hours emerged to fill my head with their buzzing possibilities. For some reason that I couldn't even begin to define, Briony's casual remark that she would like to take up painting, which at the time I'd hardly considered, loomed large among them. Jealousy again, I told myself in exasperation. It was another thread which would draw her and Lance closer together and as such I resented it. But I couldn't dismiss it as easily as that. The whole world of art seemed full of menace where it touched Briony – and that line of thought clearly stemmed from her obsession with the painting downstairs. In my feverish imagination it seemed to be endowed with some evil power of its own, luring her ever closer like an obscene carnivorous plant until it could digest her as an integral pan of itself.

I sat up suddenly and switched on the light. The familiar outlines of the bedroom leapt reassuringly at me out of the darkness. In the next bed Lance lay breathing gently, his face in sleep younger and more vulnerable than the daylight world was allowed to see it. For several minutes I stared across at him, waiting for my chaotic breathing to quieten. He knew, of course, about Briony's headaches, but the less tangible fears I had kept to myself. For the next few weeks, while he was working at full stretch to fulfil the exhibition requirements as well as keeping up his three day week lecturing at the local art college, I didn't want to add to his worries. And far from acting as a calming influence on me, where Briony was concerned he was apt to panic even more than I was. It was therefore impossible to tell him Jan's disquieting words about her ‘going away', about her sudden seeming immunity to a previously powerful allergy. With a sigh I reached up and switched off the light, watching my husband's face vanish again into the dark.

Sleep came, but only fitfully, and at breakfast I was still tired and tense. The morning sunshine flooded through the open dining-room windows, glinting blindingly on the cut-glass marmalade dish and the flashing silver of Briony's spoon as she ate her grapefruit. Across the table Lance emerged from his newspaper and smiled at her. ‘We've that tennis match to finish this afternoon, haven't we? I seem to remember we had to abandon it at my leading five-three in the third set.'

‘Oh Daddy, I can't this afternoon, I'm afraid.'

‘But it was all arranged,' I said quickly, seeing the disappointment on Lance's face. ‘You know how Daddy enjoys your Saturday tennis. It's about the only relaxation he gets.'

‘I'm sorry, I simply forgot all about it. Mark told me yesterday that there's a pop group appearing in Marshford tonight. We thought we'd walk there, having a picnic lunch on the way, and catch the last bus home. We can play tomorrow instead.'

‘The crowd will be here tomorrow,' Lance said quietly. ‘Never mind, obviously Mark has first refusal. But where in Marshford can they possibly hold a concert?'

‘The Congregational Hall. Mark managed to get almost the last two tickets.'

‘Good for him.'

The sour note in his voice must have reached her, for she stretched out impulsively for his hand. ‘Daddy darling, I do believe you're jealous! You needn't be, you know, ever. I'll always love you best!'

The breath twisted in my throat. Since my eyes were on his face I caught for a split second his startled acceptance of her accusation before he recovered himself and smilingly patted her hand.

‘I'll go and see what Rosie's rustled up for the picnic.' She pushed her chair back from the table and left the room. I said carefully into the silence, ‘I'll have a game with you this afternoon if you like.'

‘What?' He brought his eyes back to me with an effort.

‘I said –'

‘Oh. No, it's all right. I should be working anyway.' He wiped his mouth slowly with his napkin. ‘You know, she could be right. I'm in danger of becoming possessive and that's bad. You said the same thing yourself, didn't you?'

‘She has to grow away from us a little,' I said painfully.

‘I suppose so, yes.'

With a glance at his face I changed the subject. ‘I suppose you're doing your coaching this morning as usual. How's it coming along?'

‘Surprisingly well, now. It was really only started as a kind of therapy, you know – something Paul could do even if he'd never walk again. But we seem to have touched on a hidden talent, and he's far better than ever I or his parents expected.'

‘Perhaps some good will come out of that ghastly accident after all. All the same, if s a pity it takes up all your Saturday mornings.'

He glanced at his watch. ‘I must be going. See you at lunch time.' He hesitated. ‘You will make sure Briony takes sensible things if she's to be out all day? A hat, for instance. The sun will be pretty fierce today and we don't want any more of those headaches. And a jacket or something for coming home. It's still early enough in the year to be cool at night.'

‘I'll check, but she's pretty sensible.'

‘Yes.' He smiled vaguely and went out. Shakily I put my hands to my head. Was I imagining all these subtle undertones? On the surface it had been a normal enough breakfast, but to my finely tuned nerves it seemed that yet another small, insignificant landmark had been passed along the road to – what? And when would we reach the point of no return?

Briony swished back and dropped on to her chair. ‘Any coffee left?'

‘A little, I think.' I drained the pot carefully into her outstretched cup.

She eyed me uncertainly. ‘Daddy didn't mind too much about the tennis, did he?'

‘Not enough to take up my offer as a substitute, anyway! But you do owe him a bit of consideration, you know, and it wouldn't hurt Mark to learn that you aren't ready to drop everything to fit in with his suggestions.'

She dimpled. ‘No, Mother! Point taken.'

‘He told me to make sure you take a sunhat and a jacket for coming home.'

‘Bless him,' she said complacently. I looked across at her, trying not to resent her casual acceptance of his love. Almost absentmindedly she reached out for the last piece of toast in the rack and began to butter it. ‘Has he asked Mrs Pomfrett to sit for him yet?' she enquired with her mouth full.

‘How did you know about that?'

‘He mentioned it a week or two ago, when we were discussing the range of pictures for the exhibition.' I was silent. He hadn't discussed it with me. ‘He'll probably ask her tomorrow,' she added. ‘I wonder if he'll do her in the nude.'

That possibility had not occurred to me. Lance's nudes were few and far between – but an earth mother? It was possible.

Briony said with a giggle, ‘She mightn't let him. She's probably a bit flabby without her girdle!'