The Hidden Years (15 page)

'Was that the hospital?' Faye asked anxiously, coming
downstairs towards her. If anything her sister-in-law looked even more
drawn this morning, Sage recognised, turning to answer her, and even
more frail.

Why was it that when confronted with Faye's ethereal,
haunted delicacy she immediately felt the size of a carthorse and twice
as robust? And, even worse, she felt rawly aware that as her mother's
daughter
she
ought to be the one who looked
harrowed to the point of breakdown.

'No, it was a Mrs Henderson; she's on the committee for
the protest against the new road. She was ringing about this evening's
meeting. It's just as well you'd mentioned it to me, otherwise I
shouldn't have had a clue what she was talking about. I've arranged to
be there fifteen minutes before the meeting starts. I'm afraid that
means I'm going to have to spend the afternoon reading through Mother's
papers and files, which means that you'll be left to field telephone
calls and enquiries.

'Jenny was telling me when she brought my tea that
virtually half the village came round yesterday to ask how Mother is.
If you're finding all this a bit much, Faye, and you'd like to get away
for a few days…'

Immediately Faye went so pale that Sage felt as though
she'd threatened her in some way and not offered her an escape route
from the pressure she was undoubtedly suffering. She was so sensitive
that the constant enquiries about her mother's health, the constant
reminders of how slim her actual chances of full recovery were, were
obviously proving too much for her.

'Oh, no…I'd rather stay here…but if
I'm in your way…'

'In my way!' Sage grimaced. 'Faye, don't be ridiculous,
nor so self-effacing; this is your home far more than it has ever been
mine. I'm the one who should be asking you that question. In fact I was
going to ask if it would be too much of an imposition if I moved myself
in here for the duration of Mother's recovery. And, before you say
anything, that means all the extra hassle of my clients telephoning
here, and I'm afraid I'll have to sort myself out a workroom of some
sort. I can take some time off but…'

'But if Liz does recover, it's going to be a long, slow
process,' Faye finished bleakly for her.

'Yes. I was thinking about that this morning. Last night,
in the euphoria of knowing that she was at least alive, one tended to
overlook the fact that being alive is a long way from being fit and
healthy…'

'I suppose deep down inside I wasn't ready to acknowledge
then that Liz might not recover. I've leaned on her for so
long…' Faye pulled a small face. 'I wish I could be more
like you—independent, self-sufficient… But
realising how dangerously ill Liz is brought home to me how much I've
come to rely on her…'

So that was the reason for her sister-in-law's wan
face—well, there was one issue on which she could reassure
her right away, Sage decided, and said bluntly, 'I can't promise you
that Mother will recover, Faye, but if you're worrying about the
practicalities of life…well, should the worst happen, then
please don't. Cottingdean will always be your home. Knowing my mother,
she'll have done the sensible thing that so few of us do and already
drafted her will. I'm quite sure that in it she will have made it plain
that Cottingdean will eventually belong to Camilla…' She saw
that Faye was going to object and stopped her. 'No…please
don't think I should mind. I shouldn't… If anything, I'm the
one who is the intruder here, who doesn't belong, and, please, if you'd
rather I went back to London and left you to manage here without me,
don't be afraid to say so.'

'That's the last thing I want,' Faye told her honestly. 'I
couldn't possibly cope on my own, and as for this not being your
home…' She went a faint and pretty pink with indignation.
'That's nonsense and you know it.'

'Is it?' Sage asked her drily, and then concluded, 'Heaven
knows how long you're going to have to put up with me here, but I want
you to promise me that if there are any problems caused by my presence
you'll come right out and tell me. I'm not very good at being tactful,
Faye, nor at reading subtle hints of displeasure. If I'm responsible
for something happening that you don't like, just tell me.'

'I think Jenny's the one you ought to be saying that to,
not me.' Faye smiled at her. 'She's the one who's really in charge.'

Sage had turned to walk towards the small sunny
breakfast-room where Jenny had said she would serve their breakfast,
and, as Faye fell into step beside her, the latter asked hesitantly:

'And Alexi—will he mind that you'll be living
here and not—?'

'What Alexi minds or doesn't mind no longer matters,' Sage
told her crisply. 'And if he rings up and makes a nuisance of himself,
Faye, just hang up on him. I'd planned to visit the hospital this
morning and then I ought to call in at the office—there'll be
a few arrangements. I'll have to have my calls and post transferred
here… Would you and Camilla like to come to the hospital
with me, or would you prefer to visit Mother on your own, now that the
doctor says visits are allowable?'

'No, we'll come with you, if you're sure that's all
right…'

They were in the breakfast-room now. It faced south and
was decorated in warm shades of yellow with touches of fresh blue.

Outside, Jenny's husband was already working in the
garden. The breakfast-room had french windows which opened out on to a
small private terrace with steps leading down to a smooth lawned walk
flanked by double borders enclosed by clipped yew hedges that carried
the eye down the length of the path to focus on the statue of Pan at
the far end of the vista.

When her mother had first come to Cottingdean, neither the
borders nor the vista had existed, just a wild tangle of weeds. What
faith she must have had in the future to plan this mellow green
perfection out of such chaos, and yet how could she have had?
Cottingdean had been a decaying, mouldering ruin. There had been no
money to restore it, and certainly no money to spend on creating an
elegant and useless garden; she had had a husband whose health was
uncertain, a baby on the way… no family, no friend, no one
to help her, and yet in her first summer at the house she had sat down
and planned this view, this garden, knowing that it would take years to
mature.

Why? In the past Sage had always attributed her mother's
vision to stubborn pride, to a refusal to let anything stand in the way
of her will, and yet now, illuminatingly, she suddenly saw her actions
as the kind of wild, impulsive, desperate thing she might have done
herself: a fierce battling against the weight of burdens so crippling
that one either had to defy them or be destroyed by them.

'Sage, are you all right?'

As Faye touched her arm in concern, she turned to look at
her, unaware of the stark anguish and pain that shadowed her eyes.

'I was just thinking about Mother's garden,' she said
shakily, 'wondering what on earth gave her the faith to believe it
would ever come to fruition.'

She could see that Faye didn't understand: why should she?
Faye hadn't, as yet, read the diaries, and stupidly Sage was reluctant
to suggest that she should, not yet… not until…
Not until what? It was ridiculous of her to have this sensation of
somehow needing to protect her mother, to make sure that…
That what? It was her mother's wish that they all read what she had
written… all of them…

'Here's Camilla,' Faye announced, breaking into her too
introspective mood. She turned to her daughter as she hurried into the
breakfast-room via the terrace and reproached her gently, 'Darling, I
think you ought to have gone upstairs and changed before breakfast, I'm
sure Sage doesn't want to eat hers sitting next to someone who smells
of horses…'

'Gran never minded,' Camilla said fiercely, as though
daring Sage to object.

They had always got on well together, she and this child
of David's, her niece, but now Sage could see in her eyes a shadow of
uncertainty and rejection. Because Sage was taking her mother's
place… Because Camilla had known of the lack of love between
the two of them, and felt resentful on her grandmother's behalf. She
was such a fiercely loyal child, so deeply emotional and sensitive.

'Neither do I,' Sage responded equably, and then asked,
'Did you enjoy your ride? I rather envied you when Jenny told me you'd
gone down to the stables.'

She sat down, taking care to avoid the chair which had
always been her mother's, the one which afforded the best view of the
garden.

Without seeming to be, she was aware of Camilla watching
her, aware of the younger girl's faint relaxation as Sage said calmly
to Faye, 'I think you're going to have to take over Mother's job of
pouring the coffee, Faye. I never did get the knack of doing it without
dripping the stuff everywhere…'

'Gran told me that it used to be a test that would-be
mothers-in-law set for their sons' girlfriends: to make them pour the
tea,' Camilla informed them.

Sage laughed. 'So that's why I've never managed to get
myself a husband. I've often wondered.'

They all laughed, the atmosphere lightening a little. Sage
left it to Faye to inform Camilla that they were all going to visit the
hospital together. While she was doing so, Jenny came in with a
cardboard box, full of newspaper-wrapped shapes, which Sage realised
must be her mother's Sevres breakfast set.

'I've put in a packet of her favourite tea, Russian
Caravan, and some of those biscuits she likes so much…'

'Is that for Gran?' Camilla asked Jenny curiously.

'Yes, Sage thought that Liz would enjoy having her tea out
of her favourite Sevres breakfast set and she asked me to wrap it up so
that she could take it to the hospital.'

'Oh, yes… Gran loves that set, she always
said…says…' Camilla faltered, darting a quick,
anxious look at her mother '… that it makes her tea taste
extra specially good.'

'Well, it will be a long time before she can actually use
it,' Sage warned her, not adding the words all of them felt—a
long time, if ever…

'Sage will want to make an early start,' Faye informed her
daughter. 'She's standing in for your grandmother at tonight's meeting
of the action committee and she wants to spend later this afternoon
going through Liz's files, so as soon as you've finished your breakfast
I suggest you go upstairs and get changed.'

'And then I think that perhaps from tomorrow you can go
back to school,' Sage suggested quietly but firmly, pretending not to
see the grateful look Faye gave her.

When asked for her opinion Camilla had objected to being
sent away to boarding-school, and instead had asked her mother and
grandmother if she could attend a very good local day school. She was
now in her A level year, with a good prospect of getting to Oxford, if
she worked hard, and on this subject at least Sage didn't need to
wonder what her mother would have wanted Camilla to do.

'I know you'll be anxious about your grandmother,' she
continued, seeing the words already springing to Camilla's lips, 'but
if you're honest with yourself, Cam, you'll know that she'd have wanted
you to continue with your school work. She's so proud of
you… Every time I see her she tells me how thrilled she is
that you'll probably be going to Oxford. The last thing she'd want
would be for you to neglect your studies—and don't worry.
We'll make sure that you get to visit her, even if it means my taking
you in to London myself.'

'I wish she were closer to us… Can't she be
transferred to Bristol or Bath?'

'Not at this stage,' Sage told her, adding gently, 'She's
in the best possible place, Camilla… The facilities at St
Giles's are among the most advanced in the country. Perhaps later when
she's recuperating…'

She wondered if she ought to do more to prepare her niece
for the visual gravity of the intensive care ward with its machinery
and tubes, its high-tech austerity and the shocking contrast of one
pale, frail human body among all that alien machinery, and then decided
not to do so. Camilla was of a different generation, a generation for
whom machinery, no matter how complex, was accepted as a matter of
course. Camilla might not necessarily find the sight of the intensive
care ward shocking as she had done, but rather reassuring, taking
comfort from the knowledge that the most advanced techniques were being
used to support the frail thread of life.

Sage was driving through the heavy London traffic when
Camilla suddenly asked her, 'How are you getting on with the
diaries…? I meant to ask you last night, but I'd gone to bed
before you'd finished.'

'I haven't finished the first one yet,' Sage lied, knowing
that she was making an excuse for not yet having passed the diary on to
Faye as they had arranged.

'What's in it? Anything interesting?'

Sage had no idea what to say. Her fingers tensed on the
wheel and as she fumbled for words, for something to say, Faye
unwittingly came to her rescue by telling her daughter, 'Liz wanted us
all to read the diaries separately…to learn from them
individually…'

'Yes, that's right, she did.'

'Will you finish the first one tonight, then?' Camilla
pressed.

It was almost as though she sensed her caution, her
reluctance to discuss the diaries, the fact that she was deliberately
withholding something from them, Sage recognised.

Only she knew how much she had been tempted to go back
downstairs last night to go on reading… As for finishing
more of the diaries tonight… She had no idea how long the
meeting would go on for, but what she did know was that she would be
expected to make copious notes… to record faithfully every
detail of what had taken place for her mother's later assessment, if
not for the rest of the committee.