The Poets' Wives (33 page)

They sat for a few seconds as if lost in their respective memories until she asked them what they would like to do during the rest of the day. But neither had any clear ideas. Anna said she had a few phone calls to make and needed to go online for a while but after that she was free. Francesca stood up and started to clear the table, persisting even when she told her to leave everything, but she was glad when she took the temptation of the bottle of wine away. She remembered her daughter’s touch on her shoulder and went to help her.

‘Do you fancy a walk on the beach?’ Francesca asked as she placed things back in the fridge.

‘Need to put your coat on. Even though it’s bright it might be cool enough.’

‘Blow some of the London cobwebs away.’

Before she got her own coat she put some more coal on the fire and gave the hearth another brush. Francesca’s light coat looked as if it would be more at home in a Kensington café rather than the beach but when she offered one of her own, her daughter said she would be fine. They left Anna still at the kitchen table but starting up her laptop and she held her arm in the air in a farewell wave without turning to look at them.

When they had cleared the dunes and were on the beach Francesca linked her arm and she was aware of the light press of her shoulder and the perfume that she always wore. For the first few steps in the soft sand at the base of the dunes they were out of sync before they found a balanced rhythm. The sea was calm, just the way she hoped it would be in the morning, with neat little serrations of waves cutting gently at the shore.

‘Very different from London, Francesca.’

‘Very different and hardly a soul in sight. Makes a change from crowded streets. I’m glad I can walk to work and don’t have to use the Underground. It’s a bit of a nightmare in rush hour.’

‘And when you were home for the funeral you said business is going all right.’

‘Going OK but London overheads are dear so I’m not close to making my fortune just yet. The Royal Wedding was a bit of a godsend for hats.’

‘Did you get much business?’

‘A fair amount. No one famous, unfortunately, just wives of civil servants and judges mostly. And, I nearly forgot, the wife of some politician I’ve never heard of.’

They walked close to the sea where at intervals small birds skimmed its surface. Once an eddy of water came shimmying in further than they had anticipated and they had to scurry away, Francesca letting out a pretend scream followed by genuine laughter. Of her three children she thought of Francesca as possibly the happiest, the least prone to unexpected changes of direction, the one who appeared the most settled and content with wherever she found herself. There was little drama about her, no apparent depths of intensity or unfulfilled longings that were evident on the surface at least.

‘I suppose I’ll be all right so long as people keep on deciding to get married and their mothers want a nice hat to wear on the day.’

‘And no sign of you designing a dress for yourself?’

‘Afraid not but if I ever do I’ll make sure you have the very best of hats.’

‘And it’s definitely over between you and Matthew?’

‘Seems so. But we’re still friends and I see him every so often.’

‘I liked him – he seemed a gentle soul,’ she said as they got closer to the stone pier.

‘He was, he is, but we just lost whatever you’re supposed to have and drifted apart. Wasn’t meant to be. And don’t be saying plenty more fish in the sea because I can’t see them,’ she said, melodramatically shading her eyes with her hand and scanning the horizon.

‘I wasn’t going to say that,’ she said, as she patted the back of her daughter’s hand. ‘But there’ll be somebody.’

They briefly unlocked arms to step on to the stone pier. There seemed to be a swathe of light dusting the shore across the inlet.

‘The light often seems to be on that beach when you’re on this one,’ she said, hoping her daughter would link her arm again. ‘Why is that?’

‘It’s like life, I suppose. Sometimes I think if there isn’t anybody, that’ll be all right. Might even be simpler.’

She offered Francesca her arm but she was still staring across the water, this time shielding her eyes for real.

‘Will we walk to the end, inspect the site for tomorrow?’ she asked as Francesca dropped her hand from her eyes.

‘Would your life have been simpler without Dad?’

‘Simpler? Yes I’d say so,’ she said, half-turning to look towards the end of the pier then heading towards it.

‘Simpler,’ Francesca said, starting to follow. ‘And better?’

She didn’t reply and instead turned up her collar.

‘I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair,’ her daughter said as she linked her arm again.

So arm in arm they walked on and she patted Francesca’s hand to show that it was all right before she asked her how she thought Anna was.

‘She’s fine, I think. A bit preoccupied with this story about human trafficking that she’s working on.’

‘And you don’t see her that much in London?’

‘Now and again we meet up for lunch or a coffee but I don’t suppose that often.’

‘I imagine life’s just too hectic.’

‘That’s it. We’ve both got our careers and she often has to work strange hours. But I know she’s there if I need her.’

‘That’s good, Francesca. It’s always good to know that there’s someone there in an emergency. And is her love life any better than yours?’

‘I think she sees someone who works on the paper but I’m not sure. You’ll have to ask her, I’m afraid.’

‘I don’t like to pry even though a mother always wants to know everything about her children. Anna’s quite a private person, so I don’t want to make her think I’m snooping.’

They paused to look back across the beach they had just traversed. Beyond it there was the bold outline of the apartment block and from its grounds the sound of a lawnmower. Beyond that again, the church with its spire and the village houses. The light had quickened and Francesca tilted her face upwards and she imagined she was absorbing it, storing it to take back with her against the coming winter in London.

‘We’ll have the sun in our face when we walk back,’ she told her daughter.

They walked on until they reached the end of the pier. The sea was stirring itself out of its earlier stupor and there were more strident waves running briskly towards the shore and on the other side the swell was bobbing some birds that had taken rest. Standing at the pier’s end where there was no wall or rail they looked out to sea where a cargo ship drifted across the horizon.

‘Would my life have been better?’ she said. ‘I don’t know the answer to that, Francesca. Perhaps in some ways but it’s also true that I wouldn’t have had you and Anna. Wouldn’t have had Rory. And that’s something I’ll always be grateful for.’

‘Do you think of Rory often?’

‘Every day, Francesca. Every day.’

She felt her daughter put her arms protectively around her and hug her tightly. Then almost as quickly she let her go again as if embarrassed. A thick swell of water shucked up against the wall and a fine shiver of spray landed near their feet.

‘When I was a girl we used to fish for crabs here and I was always a little frightened that a wave would come and snatch me. Sometimes when it’s very stormy it’s not safe to stand here. Do you think about Rory, Francesca?’

‘Yes, sometimes. I miss the way he would come and stay a night or so at the beginning or the end of one of his trips. I used to tease him that he thought I was a hotel that never charged for a bed. I still have some of his things – a few books, some postcards and drawings, a couple of maps, even a bit of climbing equipment.’

‘What climbing equipment?’

‘Just a few bits and pieces – I think they’re called carabiners. Things for hooking yourself on.’

‘You wouldn’t throw any of it out, would you?’ she asked, trying too late to edge the concern out of her voice.

‘No, Mum, I wouldn’t do that.’

‘If they take up too much space you can send them to me.’

‘Would you like to have them?’

She nodded then turned her face away in case she might cry but she fixed her eyes on the distant cargo ship and forbade herself. There was only the restless sound of the sea. Why had she ever allowed her son to be buried in his father’s black suit? Why had she allowed him to be clothed in the vestments of death and buried under the earth when all his life he had sought to be in the light of distant mysteries? But it was her daughter who needed her now as she heard her say, ‘Why was Dad always so disappointed in me?’

‘If there’s disappointment, Francesca,’ she said, taking both her daughter’s hands as if they were about to share the first steps in some dance to silent music, ‘then it should be yours because if he didn’t realise that he had the most lovely of daughters who’s kind to everyone who crosses her path and who is talented and creative and who’s worked so hard to make a successful business, then he didn’t deserve to be your father.’

‘Sometimes we talk about him as if he’s still here and it matters what he thinks,’ she said, sniffing and breathing deeply as if suddenly there wasn’t enough air. ‘But he was disappointed, wasn’t he? He was always disappointed.’

‘There was something in Don that grew bitter over the years. Maybe he felt his talents were overlooked, maybe he didn’t feel as if he’d completely fulfilled them – I don’t know. It wasn’t anything that was your fault and you shouldn’t think that even for a moment.’

She pulled Francesca into her embrace and as she nestled her head on her shoulder she felt the shock of hearing her crying. ‘Francesca, Francesca,’ she whispered. ‘It’s all right, it’s all right.’ She rocked her a little as if she were a child again and as if the motion might free the pain. ‘Soon we won’t have to worry about what he thought, and there was no one who disappointed him more than I did.’ She gently prised her daughter free from her but only so that she could see her face. ‘Francesca, we don’t need to care any more. And tomorrow morning it’s all over for good so please don’t punish yourself. Please don’t.’

Francesca nodded but wouldn’t look at her and she felt suddenly angry, angry with him but also with herself for letting him do this to her child. Then taking her hand she moved them both closer to the edge. ‘Look, Francesca, this is where it ends.’ A light wisp of spray dark-spotted their coats and they stepped back again. ‘In the morning we’ll do as he wanted and put his ashes in the sea and pray it doesn’t throw them back at us.’

Francesca pretended to laugh before she said, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you this. I don’t know why I’m saying these things – it’s really stupid. Let’s go back before the sun goes in again.’

They walked back along the pier separated by their silence but uncertain about what should be said and whether too much had already been spoken. On the beach now there was a jogger, a couple of dog walkers and a mother and father shepherding a toddler away from the water. Francesca lifted her face again to the light and breathed deeply as if inhaling all the freshness of the morning. Her eyes closed for a second.

‘You wouldn’t mind if I sold the cottage, sure you wouldn’t?’

‘No, you must do whatever you think is best for you now. It’ll probably take all your time keeping up one place without the cottage as well. But the market’s not good now, so Anna’s right, perhaps you should wait a while and see if it picks up. And you’re all right for money, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, there’s enough to get by on if I don’t go crazy.’

‘Maybe, Mum, you deserve to go a little crazy – live a little.’

‘Francesca, even if I wanted to go crazy I wouldn’t know how.’

They nodded as the dog walkers passed them and watched as the dogs were sent scampering after balls that were thrown by a plastic stick. The jogger was a young woman who ran along the water’s edge and puffed out a red-cheeked ‘morning’ to them when they crossed. Out at sea the cargo ship had disappeared as if it had simply fallen over the edge of the horizon.

‘You could go on a cruise – lots of single people take them.’

‘There is somewhere I’d like to go,’ she said, hesitating for a second. They were almost stepping in the footsteps they had made earlier. ‘I’d like to go back to Morocco and visit the village, make a small donation to the school – they were kind to me.’

‘Are you sure, Mum?’

‘I’m sure, Francesca. I’m going to go before the end of the year.’

‘Would you like me to come with you?’

‘That’s good of you but I want to go on my own.’

They followed their prints back across the beach talking about inconsequential things but she was conscious of everything that had passed between them and had surprised herself by saying that she would go before the year’s end. It was as if the decision had been finally and impulsively made during their walk and the words spoken before she had time to allow doubts to consolidate. And she’ll take a brand-new map with the world’s countries marked as they really are and just maybe they’ll give her theirs in exchange. She’ll give them money to buy new books and things they need for the school and she’ll take a guide and walk in the mountains. The decision filled her with new determination and all that seemed to stand between her and its fulfilment was the required ritual in the morning.