The Children's Hour (6 page)

Mina doubles up breathlessly, bundling her flying black hair into an elastic band, and Lydia waves to them, laughing, holding her hands high to clap lightly, as she keeps an eye on Josie scrambling beside the rock pool. She knows that Georgie cheats and so it is Mina whom she holds for an extra second or two when they come running across the beach for a hug. Henrietta shows them her basket of shells and stones and, as the moon rises, netted and held in the bare branches of the trees up on the steep cleave, they gather their belongings and set off for home in the gathering twilight. Moths flit beneath the trees as bats dart and swoop above their heads, causing Henrietta to scream.

‘Don't be silly,' says Georgie, copying Papa's patronizing tone. ‘They won't hurt you,' but Henrietta clings to Mama's hand. She rather enjoys screaming, it excites her, and she
usually ignores Georgie's admonitions, resisting her oldest sister's self-assumed role as Papa's deputy, intuitively guessing that Mama doesn't approve of it. She screams again, just to make her point, and then jumps along cheerfully, still holding to Lydia's hand.

‘Tired,' says Josie, sitting down suddenly amongst the ferns beside the stream. ‘Carry.'

‘Oh, darling,' says Lydia anxiously. ‘Can you manage just a few more steps?' She is weary too, and Josie is heavy. Lydia is fearful of losing the child within her, which she has managed – so far – to carry so successfully. ‘We're very nearly home.
Do
try, darling.'

‘Tired,' whimpers Josie, beginning to grizzle, refusing to budge, and it is Mina who hauls her up into her arms and staggers along with her. Josie, good-humour fully restored, beams down triumphantly upon Henrietta, who puts out her tongue.

Soon, even the walk to the sea is too much for Lydia and she is confined to the garden and the house. Jenna, the young woman who helps to shop and clean, cycles over to Ottercombe most days to assist with the younger children whilst Georgie and Mina are at the local school. One morning, soon after the Easter holidays have begun, Lydia doesn't get up at all; messages are sent to London and the doctor calls in his small, black Ford.

‘I know a secret.' Georgie sidles behind Mina, an eye on Jenna, who is spreading a picnic lunch on the rocks. Henrietta helps her to weight down the cloth with stones whilst Josie peeps hungrily into the large wicker basket. The house has been in confusion for several days: their father is down from London, bringing a woman in nurse's uniform with him, and Mama remains in her bedroom. Georgie, who comes running down from the house to join the others on
the beach, is breathless. Her skinny chest heaves beneath the Fair Isle jersey she has been told she must wear, for the late April weather, though sunny, is cold. She gasps and presses her hand to her side.

‘I've got stitch,' she says.

‘We were supposed to stay here until we were called,' says Mina, who has been helping her younger sisters build a sandcastle. It is a splendid edifice with a moat, and its towers are stuck about with small paper flags. ‘Where have you been?'

Mina knows that Mama is to have a baby but she is frightened. She was too young, when Henrietta and Josie were born, to understand about babies – but now she can see the baby growing inside Mama and she wonders how it will emerge. Mama is so calm and happy that, clearly, the ordeal cannot be too terrible. ‘It is a kind of miracle,' she tells Mina, ‘but you are too young yet to understand. Later, when you are older, I shall explain it to you.'

A miracle. Perhaps it's like curing the man of the palsy or one of the other Gospel stories, and, after all, Mama has already had four babies . . .

‘I know how babies come,' says Georgie importantly, ‘but I can't tell you. It's a secret.' But Mina doesn't believe her.

‘Is it Mama?' asks Mina now, fearfully, her heart heavy and sinking, her stomach curdling with terror.

‘It's a secret.' Georgie still has an eye on the group by the rocks. ‘Can you guess? I'll tell you if you promise to be surprised later on when Papa tells us.'

‘I promise,' says Mina, shivering, her black hair whipping round her cheeks. ‘Cross my heart and hope to die. Is Mama dead?'

‘No,' answers Georgie scornfully. ‘Of course she isn't dead, silly. We have a new baby brother.' A pause. A cloud
covers the sun, shadows rippling over the sand, and the wind is chill on their bare legs. Mina is too weak with relief to feel the discomfort but Georgie stares at Mina, her pose forgotten, her eyes frightened. ‘A brother. Do you think Papa will still love us?'

Lyddie closed the front door, paused to stroke the Bosun, who lay deeply asleep in the narrow hall, and carried the Jiffy bag up to her study. The bag contained the typescript for her next editing project – an historical saga by an author she'd copy-edited before – and she was looking forward to it. The editor, an old friend and a former employer, had already discussed certain points with Lyddie on the telephone.

‘We've had to do quite a lot of revising so the new material might not quite gel with the original,' she'd said. ‘Look out for the timing, will you?'

She'd booked Lyddie for another project, for the first two weeks of December – a repeating author who wrote one thriller a year – had a gossip and hung up, but not before telling Lyddie how she envied her being able to work in Cornwall. Lyddie was not in the least deceived; most of her colleagues had been shocked at the idea of her giving up her job and working freelance from Truro. She'd known that they were anxious for her. Her story of how she'd met Liam whilst she was on holiday in Cornwall, the speed at which the relationship had warmed from attraction into love, sounded too much like fiction. The fact that he'd asked her to marry him went some way to allaying their fears but it was a huge step. It sounded wonderful, they'd agreed cautiously, but wouldn't she miss London?

Lyddie, studying the calendar on her notice-board, marking in blue ink the date of the arrival of the typescript,
smiled reminiscently. It had been difficult to describe her love for Liam or explain her readiness to quit London for the old cathedral city of Truro. Once they'd met Liam, of course, those colleagues had been more understanding. Knowing that they could trust her, they were also very ready to offer her freelance work.

‘I'd hate to give it up completely,' she'd told Liam, ‘and the money will be useful.'

He couldn't deny it: the lease on The Place hadn't come cheap and he'd insisted that the refurbishment must be classy; nothing tacky. Joe had agreed with him; Liam knew the market, knew just what was needed – and he'd been right. The Place was hauling in the punters, filling a particular well-heeled niche. The mortgage with the bank, however, was a large one.

As she noted in red ink the date on her calendar when the typescript was due back to the publisher, Lyddie wondered whether she should offer the money from what could be raised on the house in Iffley, once the deal was completed. Liam hadn't mentioned it and, oddly, she felt a certain restraint in raising the subject. Liam was deeply possessive about his business – it was his child, his world, and, although he encouraged her to come in for supper or lunch, he never made her feel truly a part of it. He and Joe were partners; The Place was theirs. Neither of them ever sought her advice or opinion but continued to treat her as though she were a valued, very special guest. In some ways she liked this: there were no pressures, no expectations. In the snug, after a day of copy-editing, she could simply relax, let her thoughts wander, chill out. She was never hurried from her cup of coffee, as Rosie was, should a customer be waiting at the bar, and her meals were presented with all the courtesy given to any of their clients. Yet her particular
association
did
make her more special, which was rather fun. Did she want to change the balance? Would she be capable of putting a large sum of money into a business that didn't encompass her, without wanting to become involved in any way? Having invested her money in The Place, could she remain disinterested? And why should it make any difference if she had no control? After all, she was already dependent on the business: it was her livelihood, as well as Liam's and Joe's. The proceeds provided for her, paid the mortgage of the little terraced house – but not completely. She had her own work, the results of which shared their own personal financial load, and Liam was very proud of her. If he saw a review of one of the novels she'd copy-edited or heard one mentioned on the radio, he was filled with pride.

She was afraid to change the status quo, yet unhappy at the idea of not contributing more substantially if she had the means. Perhaps she would speak to the Aunts about it before she suggested it to Liam. Tomorrow was a day off and she'd planned a trip to Exmoor; Lyddie felt a little glow of expectation. Sitting down at her desk, pulling on a fleece jacket, she settled down to work.

The three dogs sat together at the end of the terrace, ears alert. Voices could be heard, rising and falling from inside the house, but the dogs' attention was fixed upon the Bosun, who stood uneasily, half in, half out of the french window. He was a handsome fellow, with his jet-black, silky coat, white chest and russet markings, but the Sealyhams were unmoved both by his good looks and his sweet nature, which was viewed contemptuously – by Captain Cat, at least – as weakness.

The Bosun took a few cautious steps, emerging very nearly onto the terrace, his tail waving gently in a faintly deferential way. Captain Cat growled, an ear cocked towards the drawing-room, and Nogood Boyo, who had been considering a more balanced approach, sat down again, his ears flattening. Polly Garter, too old to sustain more than a token display of territorial aggression, yawned widely, curled into a ball and settled herself to sleep in the sun. The Bosun, seeing an opening for negotiation, emerged fully on to the
terrace. Once outside he lay down quickly, indicating that his approach was entirely friendly, lest the two dogs should set up a volley of barking in defence of their invaded space. The Bosun laid his head on his paws, though his ears were pricked warily, and his tail beat a feathery tattoo upon the warm stone.

Captain Cat stirred about, irritated. His plucky, fiery temperament demanded that he should fly out at this intruder, that this large alien should be assaulted and driven from their favourite, private place; yet he knew from long experience that this perfectly reasonable, natural response would bring shrieks and reproaches about his ears and, possibly, even the deprivation of certain treats. Stiff-legged, hackles up, he rumbled frustratedly, deep in his throat, staring insolently at his huge, handsome, gentle opponent, who could have had all three of them for lunch if he'd only had a mere pawful of decent pride.

Nogood Boyo whined a little. He enjoyed a good scrap as much as the next fellow – but his instinct was to approach the Bosun with friendly caution. Captain Cat could feel control slipping away from him but, before the situation became dangerous, the three women emerged into the sunshine, the balance of power shifted and the tension lifted.

The Bosun stood up, tail wagging wildly now, and hurried to sit beside Lyddie's chair; Nogood Boyo, hostilities forgotten, examined the contents of the tray placed on the bamboo table; Captain Cat gave a few short barks, so that the Bosun should realize – and be suitably ashamed – that his skin had been saved by a pack of women, and settled beside Nest. Only Polly Garter continued to lie dreaming in the sun, beyond the prick of lust, whether for blood or love or even food; all passion spent.

Mina reached a hand to her warm white coat, smiling to
herself, remembering other, earlier years, and then began to pour the coffee.

‘We're all ready,' she told Lyddie cheerfully. ‘Her room's looking very pretty – just the flowers to do. I hope she likes it. It's the one she and I shared when we were children during the war. You know, we haven't seen Georgie for ages. Oh, more than a year at least. It'll be fun, won't it, Nest?'

Nest's eyelid flicked as Lyddie looked at her and she smiled as she took her mug. ‘I'm sure it will,' she answered. ‘We'll make it a real holiday.'

Lyddie slipped her arm round the Bosun's neck as he sat, solid and comforting, beside her. ‘But you would say, wouldn't you, if things got a bit . . . well, a bit out of hand?'

‘Poor Georgie,' said Mina lightly. ‘She's not some kind of lunatic, you know. Only getting rather old and forgetful. Well, aren't we all! I don't think we shall need physically to restrain her.'

‘And if we do,' added Nest lightly, sipping her coffee, ‘we'll knock her out with a treble dose of my tramadol hydrochloride and tie her to her bed.'

Lyddie chuckled, as Nest had intended she should. ‘I wouldn't put it past you, either,' she replied. ‘You're both very unscrupulous women.'

Mina raised her eyebrows. ‘How exciting you make us sound. So how is Liam?'

The slight pause caused both women to glance at her although each steadfastly avoided the other's eyes. Lyddie stroked the Bosun's soft sun-warmed head and crumbled some shortcake with her free hand.

‘He's fine,' she said at last. ‘Great. Everything's fine. But, actually, I did want to talk to you about something.'

She hesitated again, whilst Mina and Nest strove to contain their nervous impatience.

‘Nothing too serious?' suggested Mina at last, unable to bear the tension any longer. ‘Nothing . . .' She was unable to formulate her fears and glanced helplessly at Nest, who shook her head warningly.

‘No, no,' said Lyddie quickly. ‘Of course not. It's simply what I ought to do with my money once Roger has got his mortgage sorted out. I should get a hundred and fifty thousand. Liam's never mentioned it but I know The Place has got a big mortgage. Do you think I should offer it to him to help pay it off?'

‘No,' said Nest sharply and at once – and both Mina and Lyddie stared at her in surprise.