Love Song Page 25

  As for Hope, she stayed at home. She could not face goodbyes any more. And yet she could not have said why.

  On the train to London Rose herself thought long and hard about what Melinda had said. And as the lovely countryside stations and the green fields retreated, and the villages became towns, and the back gardens became oblongs bedecked with lines of brave washing rather than fields with small ponies, it seemed more and more to Rose that Mellie could only be right. It was no good pretending around a relationship, or a person, or a job for that matter; whatever happened, she must not do that. She must face life in London head on, no pretending her geese were swans, no holds barred, she must call the soot and the grime black not grey.

  But, of course, the moment she did actually arrive in London she forgot all about her good resolutions, and instead of seeing the great, blackened, grimy city as the trap that it was, held to ransom by traffic, filled with people who had rather be at home resting than in its moiling embrace working for great profits for someone else to enjoy, instead of seeing the pale, grim faces that passed her or stood beside her on the Underground platform for what they were, unhappy people who would give anything for another way of life, if they could find it or afford it, Rose saw only excitement, and bustle, and felt only wonder that she had at last become a part of this great city full of people reaching out for what it had to offer.

  For growing up in West Dean Drive, although it was technically London, none of the Merriott sisters had ever really known London proper. They had lived on a quiet suburban avenue on the edge of a large green park where they had known everyone, and everyone had known them, but it would have been ridiculous to suggest that it was the real London. It had been no more London than it had been Paris.

  And so it was that as Rose found herself trailing her suitcase from the taxi to the flight of steps that led up to Hugh Reilly’s front door she felt that unique sensation that only cities can bring, namely that come what may she was a stranger to everyone who passed, and as yet still a stranger to everyone living at Mr Reilly’s large Victorian house so near to Clapham Common, but so far from the West End.

  Now, unlike Hatcombe, or even West Dean, no-one knew her at all. She could do what she wanted without comment. She could be quiet or noisy, fat, slim, talented or a complete dud, and no-one would really be in the least bit interested.

  Anonymity was an intoxicating sensation after the smallness of country life, and as Rose rang the bell, quite suddenly she knew it and it was like a sea breeze before you actually saw the sea, or the scent of flowers before you rounded the corner and saw them growing, or music heard very, very far away, but clearly enough to make you want to grow closer to it, to run it through you, to feel it and all its compulsive yearnings, despite the fact that those yearnings made you restless, longing for something that perhaps might not happen, could not happen, and had never happened, not to anyone or anything. That was what it was like knowing that you were no-one who wanted so much to become someone.

  ‘My dear girl, do come in. Can I help you?’

  Hugh Reilly stood by the dark red door of his large Victorian house with its Edwardian tiled floor and its dark brown walls and looked at Rose with interest as she dragged her over-large suitcase into his hall, but he made no move to help her, only lightly brushing the sides of his reddish-fronted white hair with his fingertips as he watched her. When he had seen her into the hall, he closed the door behind her.

  ‘Rose Merriott. How do you do?’

  They shook hands, and Rose could sense at once that he liked her for observing an old-fashioned ‘Aunt Rosabel’ sort of form in introducing herself to him. He withdrew his hand, and yet again his fingertips brushed each side of his hair, first one side and then the other, and he walked ahead of Rose up the dark-carpeted stairs, slowly followed by Rose, dragging her suitcase and carrying her handbag.

  Up and up they went, Rose panting behind him, while every now and then Hugh Reilly stopped, as if in concession to the weight of her suitcase and the height of the climb, but he never referred to her luggage, or turned to look at her, only waiting, one foot poised, one hand on the banisters, until Rose was once more behind him.

  Her room was revealed to be everything that an attic room should be, its walls covered in a flower-printed wallpaper, matching curtains on its high windows whose views were only of chimneypots, the floor covered in hessian, and the cupboards of lightly painted pine.

  ‘So.’ He paused, and then remembered to smile, and as he did so, for no reason she could think of – except perhaps that his smile was so detached, almost bleak – Rose felt a tidal wave of homesickness sweeping over her.

  Here she was, all alone, in London, her heart’s desire, but for some reason home suddenly seemed so far away it might as well be Mongolia, and to her shame she found herself longing to be back with her sisters. Her mind went back to the hens that Mellie had bought for Keeper’s and the way they sheltered by the door from the rain, fastidious in the finery of their feathers. She longed for the sound of the millrace when they walked past Jack’s house on a Sunday afternoon and up to the fields behind. For the sudden sound of the wild Canada geese flying overhead on a quiet, warm summer morning. For the foxy auburn of autumn leaves when the dying year seemed to have turned the trees to a ballet of colour. For the smell of the wood fire burning in the cottage grate and the hiss of the logs as the flames warmed the damp wood.

  ‘I have some sheets for you to iron, but they can wait until you have unpacked your little suitcase.’

  Her landlord smiled again, and then with one last gesture which incorporated the inevitable finger-combing of his side-swept hair, he was gone. Rose raised her eyes to heaven, and in her imagination she wagged her finger at Aunt Rosabel in heaven on a cloud. Hugh Reilly had always sounded, when he was referred to by her great-great-aunt, somehow Edwardian and important, broad-shouldered, perhaps corpulent, with a quite definite eye for the women, not at all the man she had just met.

  As Rose opened her suitcase, it came to her that Aunt Rosabel had probably not seen Hugh Reilly since they were both in their twenties – in which case it would hardly be surprising if he had changed a great deal, and those parts of him that had once been concealed by the glories of youth were now all too evident.

  Having laughed at both Mellie’s jokes, she put everything away in the cupboards and went downstairs to find the kitchen, which she discovered at the back of the house overlooking the garden. It was also full of sheets.

  Not just one, two, or three sheets, but pair after pair, doubles, singles, pillowcases, some striped, some white, some yellow, but all waiting for her attentions and all piled one upon the other, any old how, in a way that made what they had to have done to them seem even more arduous.

  As she stared at them, and the ironing board, another thought occurred to Rose. Mr Reilly must have been left in the lurch by some rebellious soul who refused any longer to be his domestic drudge, and the hurry to have someone replace this luckless person was everything to do with getting the laundry done for free and very little to do with his going away to Ireland on a very important tour.

  Quite against her will, and to her shame, as she plucked the first of the double sheets from the pile beside the ironing board Rose’s eyes filled with tears, but she quickly blinked them away. After all, she was a Merriott, she was made of sterner stuff. To prove this to herself, just before she began on the sheets, she took the pieces of paper with Mellie’s jokes written on them out of her pocket and read them again, to encourage the shaming lump of self-pity that she could feel in her throat to disappear, never to return, and so that she would see for herself what a damp squib she was to make a fuss over ironing, of all things. After all, as Aunt Rosabel often said, Well, never mind. It’s not the war, after all, is it? There were no doodlebugs falling today at any rate!

  Claire stared dismally around her room. She had always, come rain or shine, whether at West Dean or at Hatcombe, or now at Keeper’s, shared a room with Rose. N
ow, next to her book-strewn bed, there was one neatly stripped of its sheets, covered over with a counterpane and left with only a small forlorn teddy on it, and no Rose.

  Claire picked up the teddy and, climbing into her own bed, tucked it beside her. She had forgotten the bear’s name – Rose had so many – but she thought it was Biddy. Something very like that, anyway. She put her arm round Biddy and stared up at the cottage ceiling. Somewhere, far, far away in London, Rose would already be beginning to have a really exciting time.

  Claire stared at the ceiling, imagining her middle sister with her tall figure and dark hair, her beautiful long legs and her dark eyes, perhaps in the outfit Aunt Rosabel had bought her – the glittery top and the swishy skirt – making an entrance into some party, or some restaurant, where all eyes would be turned on her. Every man in the room would want to come straight to her side and seduce her with their words and their looks, forcing her to choose which of them she would allow to take her out to dinner.

  ‘Crush them beneath your heel, Rose,’ Claire whispered into the teddy’s ear. ‘For me and Mellie, and you and Mums, crush them under your heel!’

  She was only a year behind Rose, and so, as she clutched the borrowed teddy and stared up at the white-painted ceiling, it was hardly surprising that the thought came into her head that she too must soon be going to London, and for all the same reasons as Rose. Hatcombe and the country had nothing to offer her. The towns and villages were full of many delights, but none that were of the slightest interest to Claire.

  She wanted to study art. She wanted to see the works of great painters. She wanted to work in an art gallery. She wanted to meet new and talented people. She could do none of these things living at Keeper’s Cottage, near Pensbury, Wiltshire.

  Her heart sank at the idea of how far she was from what she wanted. She still had innumerable tests and exams at the local college before her treasured ‘A’ in History of Art came about, but when it did she would follow Rose to London without a second’s hesitation.

  For a moment her mind dwelt on Melinda, alone with Letty and Mums at Keeper’s, but then it swiftly passed on, because, after all, Mel really loved the country, and riding. The Grey Goose and she were ‘an item’, as Claire and Josh were always teasing her. They were not horse and rider any more, they had become one great big flying spirit. With all that, not to mention Josh, Mel would not need Claire around. It was just a fact.

  Claire fell into a contented sleep, suddenly aware that Rose was just a front runner, or a forerunner, well, some kind of runner, for Claire herself. She had gone ahead to London, that was all. Claire would shortly follow.

  Chapter Twelve

  By the time there was no disguising Hope’s pregnancy and Claire seemed to have crocheted more layettes than the baby would ever need – all in yellow and white so that it would not matter what sex the new child was – Alexander seemed to have disappeared without trace from all their lives, for good.

  Jack, who had an endearing love of gossip, eventually found out that Muffin Hatherleigh was not only rich, but dominating, and that her previous husband had died in not-so-mysterious circumstances – driving their Range Rover into a loch in Scotland while under the influence of more drink than was normal even at that time of year, having previously attended a Christmas party at a well-known distillery famed for its single malt whisky.

  While this had been most regrettable, it was generally agreed that, given the uneven tenor of his life, not to mention his wife’s famously bad temper, his death had in fact been more than merciful. It had been a relief.

  Armed with this information, Hope was quite able to face the rest of her pregnancy in the knowledge that while they, at Keeper’s Cottage, might be having to what Claire called make and do, Alexander’s life would be one long round of pleasure, while his soon-to-be second wife exacted payment for such luxuries as private helicopters and homes staffed by hovering butlers and crisply uniformed maids, not to mention the use of chauffeured cars and jet travel to exotic foreign locations, in the shape of his peace of mind, if not his happiness.

  ‘Apparently she has the temper of the devil and is impossible to please, having been both a beauty and rich all her life.’

  Hope could not help smiling at that. She was sitting beside Jack in the Mill House sipping a glass of elderflower and soda while Jack talked and played the piano. ‘Well, never mind that now.’

  Jack stopped playing and stared at her. ‘Never mind that now!’ he teased her. ‘Never mind that now! After the way he’s treated you! You haven’t heard from him except through his lawyer for the whole of your pregnancy, have you?’

  Hope shrugged her shoulders. Had it been Alexander’s child she was expecting, how different she would feel. But as it was, knowing that it was Jack’s child, and that they had an emotional future together, she could only feel benevolent towards her former husband.

  ‘He’s putting you through a quickie divorce, he’s gone off with everything and that’s all you can say – never mind that now?’

  Hope started to laugh as Claire came in with some dips she had made for them all, and they stopped talking while she told them about her day trip to the Tate Gallery, and showed them her postcards.

  ‘That girl lives for art.’ Jack shook his head and went back to playing a new theme he was working on. ‘That’s the good thing about our lot, they all know exactly what they’re going to do. We’re very lucky.’

  This was true, and did make bringing up ‘their lot’ a whole lot easier than it might have been, particularly given the radical change in Hope’s circumstances.

  Rose had applied to go to RADA, and they were all keeping their fingers crossed for her. Claire had found herself a temporary situation as a mother’s help in a nearby village house while she took an early A level in History of Art, and Melinda and the Grey Goose were already making a fine fist of their eventing partnership thanks, Melinda insisted, to the brilliance of their coach, ‘dear old Stricty-boots’, as the colonel was now called by her.

  Meanwhile, Josh, Tobe and Cyndi – ‘my lot’, as Jack in his turn always affectionately referred to them – spent all the time they could spare between work, university and school at home in Jack’s studio in the Mill House grounds, making music. But whenever he could repossess it, Jack made sure he was back in there, secretly trying out a love song he was writing for Hope.

  He had said nothing to her, but it seemed to him that the composition of this song, its reality, making it beautiful for her, was more and more important as every day of every week went by. It was many years since he had actually been around a pregnant woman, and now he was filled with the kind of anxious pride that he could only vaguely remember feeling about Josh, Tobe and Cyndi.

  And so, to take his mind off everything, he would wander round the studio discarding things, tidying his music sheets, even, on occasion, washing the floor.

  ‘You’re like one of those birds out there – fussing about with a piece of straw in your beak one minute, an old leaf the next.’

  Jack was momentarily embarrassed, because he knew that Hope was right. He was like a nesting bird. Too late he remembered that men nested too, although the realization did not stop him. And while he knew that Hope was right not to move in with him until they were married, he also guessed that their ‘secret’ was probably not a secret from Hope’s girls, that they probably all knew, if only from watching him with Hope, that he was in fact the father of her baby.

  He actually wanted to compose a new song for the new baby, but he was too superstitious, thinking that to do so would be to invite calamity.

  Nevertheless, to help himself get over his anxieties, he could at least write a song to Hope, and as each day crept by he knew not only that he could, but that he must.

  At first he felt so anxious about her that nothing would come, and he would find himself day after dreary day just shifting about the studio, not only unable to compose a note, but quite unable to be on his own too, for the worry of her. As
long as he was actually with Hope, as long as he could see her, he felt that she would be all right, but of course he could not be with her all the time. That would be ridiculous. He had to leave her alone sometimes, if only to rest, or to have some peace and be with her own children.

  At last, as the final weeks shook themselves inside the kaleidoscope of time, and all the reds and the blues and the greens and the oranges became confused but starry patterns, Jack’s love song to Hope came to him. Not as his songs usually did, in a rush, the notes pouring from his fingers, but little by little, as if the gods, feeling for his state of loving anxiety, only let inspiration come to him on a daily basis in order to distract him from the reality of what was about to happen to Hope. Take his mind off the danger that might be to come.

  For herself Hope was only too relieved when the heat of summer was at last over, and so it was that with the weather less warm, and the date set for her Caesarean section, she found herself on the way to the County Hospital to have the baby.

  ‘Don’t forget I don’t want to know the sex,’ she reminded her outwardly optimistic gynaecologist. ‘I just don’t want to know until it’s all over and I’m awake again, and he or she is in my arms.’

  ‘By the looks of the scan, it is in very good shape. In fact, perfect shape.’

  Hope was on her way back to her room, for an evening of anxiety spent free of anything except water, and the gynaecologist heading for an evening, doubtless, spent with her husband and children, with nothing more to think about than the cooking of dinner, a little gossip, perhaps a glass of wine or two.

  As she unpacked her overnight case Hope found herself wishing that she could swap places with the surgeon, or the hospital porter who had just passed pushing someone in a wheelchair, or the man with the umbrella that she could just see in the street outside, with anyone, in fact, rather than be herself waiting for yet another Caesarean.

  ‘Sometimes my life seems to have been one long Caesarean section,’ she said to one of the nurses, who gave her a comforting squeeze on the arm. Hope’s answering smile was wan, her courage at rock bottom.