The Angel Tree (13 page)

Greta thought her children’s laughter was the most beautiful sound in the world. She loved watching the way Jonny was so protective of his sister, and how equally attentive Cheska was to
her more delicate sibling when he caught one of his coughs or colds.

The relationship between Owen and Jonny also grew and flourished. Jonny would give ‘Da’, as he called him, a beaming smile when he entered the nursery and hold his arms up to be
cuddled. Greta often watched from the window as her husband and son disappeared into the woods, the boy’s little hand held fast in Owen’s and his legs struggling to keep pace. If Greta
resented the obvious favouritism, she didn’t show it. Instead, she built a bond between herself and her angelic, golden-haired daughter.

Occasionally, there were visitors: Mr Glenwilliam would come for dinner with his wife, and sometimes Jack Wallace, the farm manager, would join them for Sunday lunch. A couple of Owen’s
army chums came once for the weekend, but Greta had always known that he was not a great socialiser.

Greta’s friendship with Mary grew apace, even though she was the mistress and Mary the servant. Mary had confided in her that Huw Jones, a young farmhand on the estate, had been gently
courting her for the past few months. She confessed that he’d kissed her the last time they had met and how nice it had been. Greta had felt a sudden pang of envy at the fact Mary had a young
suitor, but lived vicariously through their romance. They often leafed through Greta’s weekly copy of
Picturegoer
together or giggled over the twins’ antics. Greta thanked God
Mary was here. She was the only young, female company she had.

‘Darling boy! How wonderful to see you! My, you look well!’ LJ reached up and kissed her son on both cheeks.

‘And it’s good to see you, Ma. Shall we go through?’

‘Yes. But are you sure you can afford this?’ LJ looked around the Savoy Hotel reception as they made their way through to the Grill Room.

‘Absolutely. Things are going rather well for me, Ma. I’ve waited a long time to be able to do this,’ David replied with a grin.

LJ watched in surprise as the maître d’ greeted her son warmly and escorted them to a secluded banquette in a corner of the room.

‘Do you come here often, David?’

‘Leon, my agent, always brings me here for lunch. Now, shall we have champagne, Ma?’

‘Are you sure, David? It must be frightfully expensive,’ said LJ, making herself comfortable.

David summoned a waiter. ‘We’ll have a bottle of Veuve Clicquot, please. Today is a celebration.’

‘What of, darling?’

‘The BBC, in their wisdom, have at last decided to give me my own radio show.’

‘Oh, David!’ LJ clapped her hands together in delight. ‘How absolutely wonderful! I’m thrilled for you.’

‘Thanks, Ma. My show will go out on Monday night between six and seven. I’ll be compering, and we’ll be having different guest comedians and crooners every week.’

‘You
must
be doing rather well if you can afford to treat your mother to a champagne lunch at the Savoy Grill.’

‘Not from the BBC, I might add, but then no one ever became rich working for them,’ David replied, irony in his voice. ‘It’s all the other things I’m starting to
do. They add up. Leon thinks I may have secured a small part in a film at Shepperton Studios, then there’s the Windmill and—’

‘Do you still have to work there, David, dear? It’s just the thought of, well . . . you know I’ve never been terribly keen.’

‘For the moment, yes. Remember, they gave me a job when no one else would, Ma. Anyway, I want to play it safe until I’ve got at least six months’ definite work and the radio
show proves it’s going to be a runner. You won’t like the name of the show, though.’

‘Won’t I? What is it?’

‘
Taffy’s Ticklers.
’

‘Gracious! That confounded name has really stuck, hasn’t it? Well, you’ll always be David to me, dear boy.’

The champagne arrived and the waiter poured out two glasses. David raised his. ‘To you, Ma. For all your support.’

‘Silly boy! I’ve done nothing. You’ve done it all by yourself.’

‘Ma, you’ve done so much. When I first told you I wanted to be a comedian you didn’t pour scorn on me, however ridiculous it may have seemed at the time. And when I left for
London after the war to try my luck, you didn’t chastise me for being irresponsible.’

‘Well, I’m thrilled things have turned out so well for you. Here’s to you, darling. Down the hatch, as they say.’ LJ took a sip of champagne, but then her face became
serious. ‘David, I must ask you, have you had any second thoughts on the Greta and Owen situation? You know as well as I do that their deception is little less than a crime. The two of them
have cheated you out of your rightful inheritance. I’m sure that if you decided to take it to court, you’d have a very strong case. After all, those babies were born less than six
months after Owen first laid eyes on Greta. And Dr Evans must know the truth. He delivered them, after all.’

‘No, Ma,’ David said firmly. ‘We both know that Dr Evans would never speak out against Owen. They’ve known each other for years. And besides, with my career finally
headed in the right direction, a scandal like that could destroy it before it really begins. Anyway, I’m very happy living my own life. The best thing I ever did was to leave Marchmont. I
have everything I need right here, really. How are Owen and Greta?’

‘I have absolutely no idea. I’ve had no contact with Owen since I left. Mary writes me the occasional letter, but I haven’t heard from her for months either. Honestly, David, I
don’t understand how you can take all this so calmly. I know I can’t,’ she muttered, taking a large slug of champagne.

‘Perhaps it’s because I never expected to inherit Marchmont in the first place. When I was growing up, I realised Owen didn’t like me. I never understood why,
though.’

LJ gritted her teeth. She had never told her son about her relationship with Owen or explained his subsequent antipathy towards David. And she didn’t intend to do so now. ‘I really
don’t know, David. Suffice to say, the entire situation is quite ghastly. Now, shall we order? I’m famished.’

The two of them enjoyed a lunch of lobster soup, rack of lamb and fruit salad, over which they chatted about the format of David’s radio show.

‘And what about female company? Picked up any new waifs and strays recently?’ asked LJ, raising an eyebrow.

‘No, Ma, I’m far too busy with my career at the moment to even contemplate a relationship. So, tell me, how’s life in Gloucestershire?’

‘Well, I’ve never been a great one for bridge parties and the petty gossip of the suburbs, but I mustn’t complain.’

‘Admit it, Ma’ – David eyed her – ‘you miss Marchmont, don’t you?’

‘Perhaps. Mind you, not many women of my age would say they missed getting up at five to milk the blasted cows, but at least it gave me a purpose. I find all this spare time I have now
makes the day drag. I may be getting on a little, but I’m not in my dotage yet. Mind you, Dorothy’s a brick.’ LJ paused, then sighed. ‘Yes, dammit! I
do
miss the
old place dreadfully. I miss waking up in the morning and looking out at the mist on the tops of the hills and hearing the sound of the stream beneath me. It’s so very beautiful there
and—’ Her voice trailed off and David could see tears in her eyes.

‘Ma, I’m so sorry.’ He reached out a hand to cover hers. ‘Listen, I could take steps to fight for Marchmont if it means that much to you. Forgive me for being selfish.
It’s been more your home than mine, and now you’ve lost it – all because I sent Greta to you.’

‘Goodness, David, don’t blame yourself for simply trying to help a damsel in distress. No one could have foreseen what would happen. Anyway’ – LJ took a handkerchief from
her handbag and surreptitiously wiped her eyes – ‘don’t listen to me, I’ve had far too much champagne and I’m just being a silly old woman, looking back to the
past.’

‘Are you sure you can’t go back to Marchmont, Ma?’

‘Never.’ LJ stared at her son, her eyes suddenly hard. ‘Now, I really must be heading for the train home. It’s gone three o’clock and Dorothy gets in a fearful
panic if I’m not back when I say I’ll be.’

‘Of course.’ David signalled for the bill, hating to see his mother’s distress. ‘It’s been wonderful to see you.’

Five minutes later he escorted his mother outside and into a taxi.

‘Please take care of yourself, Ma,’ he said, kissing her.

‘Of course I will. Don’t worry about me, darling. I’m as tough as old boots.’

David watched the taxi drive off, feeling vaguely depressed. Over the years he’d often had the feeling that there was more to the cool relationship his mother had with Owen than met the
eye.

But he was damned if he knew what it was.

On the afternoon of the twins’ third birthday Greta held a tea party on the terrace. Owen, herself, Mary, Jonny and Cheska spent two hours eating sandwiches and chocolate
cake, then playing Blind Man’s Buff and Hide and Seek in the woods.

At bedtime Greta felt Jonny’s forehead, as his cheeks looked a little too rosy. She crushed half an aspirin into some juice and made him drink it. This usually did the trick to bring his
fever down. Jonny had a nasty cough, the legacy of a bout of bronchitis a week ago, but had seemed bright enough this afternoon.

She mentioned her concern to Owen when Jonny had at last fallen asleep and she’d joined her husband for dinner.

‘Overexcitement, I’ll bet,’ Owen had said with a fond smile. ‘He’ll soon perk up when I take him out on his new tricycle tomorrow. He’s turning into a fine,
sturdy young man. I’ll have him up on a pony in the next few months.’

Despite his reassurances, Greta couldn’t settle once she’d climbed into bed. Although she was used to dealing with Jonny’s frequent illnesses, this time her maternal alarm bell
was ringing loudly. She padded into the nursery and found Jonny tossing and turning in his cot. His coughing had developed a deep, rasping edge to it. Putting her hand on his forehead, she could
feel immediately that he was burning up. She stripped him and wiped him down gently with a cool sponge, but still this didn’t ease the fever. She sat watching him for a while, trying to
suppress her panic. After all, Jonny had often run a temperature before and she didn’t want to overreact. But an hour later, when Greta yet again leant over the cot to feel his forehead, he
didn’t open his eyes at her touch. Instead, he lay there, coughing and murmuring incoherently to himself.

‘Jonny’s really ill, I know he is!’ she cried, as she flew into Owen’s bedroom.

Her husband was awake immediately, his eyes full of fear. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘I’m not sure,’ said Greta, choking back a sob, ‘but I’ve never seen him as bad as this. Please call Dr Evans. Now!’

Forty minutes later the doctor was bent over Jonny’s cot. He took his temperature and listened to the toddler’s shallow breathing through his stethoscope.

‘What is it, doctor?’ asked Greta.

‘Jonny has a particularly nasty case of bronchitis, and it may well be turning into pneumonia.’

‘He’ll be all right, won’t he?’ asked Owen, his face grey with fear.

‘I suggest we take him to the hospital in Abergavenny. I don’t like the sound of those lungs. I suspect they’re filling with fluid.’

‘Oh God,’ Owen moaned, wringing his hands in anguish.

‘Let’s try not to panic. I’m only taking precautions. Can you take your car, Mr Marchmont? It’ll be faster than calling the ambulance. I’ll telephone the hospital
and let them know you’re coming in with Jonny, then I’ll join you there.’

Owen nodded as Greta scooped up her son and the three of them made their way hastily down the stairs to the car. On the journey to the hospital, clutching her sick child in her arms, Greta
watched her husband’s hands shaking as he drove towards Abergavenny.

Jonny’s condition deteriorated seriously over the next forty-eight hours. Despite the best efforts of the doctors and nurses, Greta listened helplessly to her son
struggling for every breath as he grew weaker. She thought her heart might break in despair.

Owen sat silently on the other side of Jonny’s bed, neither of them able to provide any comfort for the other.

Jonny died at four in the morning, three days after his third birthday.

Greta held him for the last time, studying every tiny detail of his beloved face: his perfect rosebud lips, and his high cheekbones, which were so like his father’s.

The two of them drove home in silence, too devastated to speak. Greta went straight up to the nursery and held Cheska close to her, crying into her hair.

‘Oh, my darling . . . my darling, why him? Why him?’

Later that day, she staggered downstairs to find Owen. He was in the library. A bottle of whisky was beside him and his head was in his hands. He was crying; dreadful deep, rasping sobs.

‘Please, Owen, don’t . . . don’t.’ Greta went to him and placed her arms around his shoulders.

‘I . . . I loved him so much. I knew he wasn’t mine, but from the first moment I held him in my arms I . . .’ Owen shrugged miserably. ‘He felt like my son.’

‘And he
was
your son. He worshipped you, Owen. No father could have done more.’

‘Having to watch him die so painfully . . .’ Owen put his head into his hands once more. ‘I can’t believe he’s gone. Why him? He hadn’t had a life yet and
here am I, fifty-nine years old. It should have been me, Greta!’ He looked up at her. ‘What have I got to live for now?’

Greta sighed deeply. ‘You have Cheska.’

Greta hoped that the funeral might bring some form of closure for herself and her husband. Owen looked as though he had aged ten years in ten days and she’d had to
physically support him at the graveside as they watched the tiny coffin being lowered into the ground.

She had suggested to Owen and the vicar that they lay Jonny to rest in the clearing in the woods where he had loved playing with his sister. ‘And I’d prefer to think of him amongst
the trees than surrounded by old bones in a cemetery,’ she’d added.