The Dilemma

Francesca and Bard did not go home that night. Bard said that in any case the pavement outside the house was swarming with reporters and apart from the fact that Kitty needed them with her, it was a great deal easier for them to remain where they were.

He had not been joking, as Francesca had opined so correctly to Mr Moreton-Smith, about the police: they had indeed met him at Heathrow.

He had phoned Stainforth, as Philip Drew had said he must, and told him where he was, and Stainforth had said he had no option but to put out a port stop immediately.

‘But they were very good, let me come straight here. I’ve become high-risk stuff, that’s all. Won’t be able to get away again. Not even to walk down the road, without reporting in. Huge bail, Philip Drew says.’

They were talking, very quietly, in Francesca’s room at the hospital; Kitty slept in her cot in the corner, remarkably peacefully for a baby with so many traumas so recently behind her. She was, Mr Moreton-Smith had said, in surprisingly good shape, as ready as she could be for her operation the next day.

‘I wouldn’t have gone, you know,’ Bard said, looking at her, his eyes very dark, moving over her face, ‘if it hadn’t been for you. What you said. I wasn’t running away from it all. I was leaving a life without you. That’s all. Perfectly simple. There didn’t seem much point staying.’

‘Francesca,’ he said suddenly, ‘Francesca, I love you. I love you very much. Whatever’s happened, whatever I’ve done, whatever you’ve done, you have to know that’s true. Otherwise there’s no point in any of it. Do you? Do you know that?’

‘Good,’ he said, and he sounded infinitely self-satisfied, sat back in the hospital chair. ‘My mother was right.’

‘Yes. She said I had to do something, to show you. She said saying wasn’t enough, I must do something. Clever old stick, my mother.’

‘It isn’t going to be easy, is it?’ he said, his dark eyes heavy, sombre. ‘Not going off into the sunset, not suddenly happy ever after?’

‘No,’ she said, ‘not easy, not easy at all. I thought that, while I waited for you. But I also thought – well, we have damaged one another. We’re both angry, both hurt. We can recover together. Hopefully.’

‘It’s a rather negative analysis,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘but, yes. Hopefully, yes.’

‘Yes,’ he said shortly, ‘yes she did. But I’m afraid she might have been less right about that.’

Francesca stood up and picked up her jacket and her bag, walked towards the door. ‘Goodbye Bard.’

‘I’m not joking,’ she said, and looking at her, he could see she meant it, that it was true.

‘Francesca, don’t be so bloody stupid. Of course you’re not leaving me. I’ve just risked arrest, being sent straight to jail, to come back, to be with you.’

‘I know that. But you’re doing it again already. You’ve been back less than two hours and you’re already deciding what I shall and shan’t know. I can’t stand it, Bard, I’m sorry.’

‘All right,’ he said, throwing his hands into the air, ‘all right, I’ll tell you. I didn’t think you were ready for it, that’s all. What she said was,’ he said, very tentatively, and there was no arrogance in him at all at that moment, ‘she said you loved me too. But that you didn’t know it, just at the moment. That’s all.’

Francesca put down her things again, and went back across the room. She sat down on the bed, next to him, and put out her hand, touched his face very briefly, as so long ago he had once touched hers.

Next day, Mr Moreton-Smith came into the room where Bard and Francesca had been waiting for three and a half endless hours, and smiled at them. ‘She’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘Complete success, and I’m very, very satisfied with the whole thing. She’s still on the respirator, but I’m probably going to be taking her off it in a couple of hours. Her condition is excellent. She’ll be running around in days.’

‘She can’t run,’ said Francesca, ‘yet,’ and went across to him and hugged him. ‘Thank you, thank you so much, and I’m sorry I was so rude to you.’

‘I’m not very used to it, I must say,’ he said looking rather embarrassed. ‘It was probably good for me.’

They went to look at Kitty in Intensive Care; she looked terrifyingly removed from them, naked apart from a nappy, a gash of scar on her chest, wires and tubes coming from all over her small body, still unconscious. The nurse smiled.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ she said, ‘it looks much worse than it is. She’s fine, honestly. Fit as a very small fiddle. She’ll be smiling at you tomorrow. I promise.’

Later she was taken off the respirator; they went to see her again and stood, enraptured, watched the wonderfully satisfying, regular heartbeat on the monitor.

‘Let’s,’ said Bard. ‘We’ve got nothing better to do. Nothing better in the world.’

The nurse was right; next day, Kitty lay in her small cot and smiled up at them both. It was a slightly uncertain smile, but it was still a smile.

Rachel brought Jack in later that day. ‘I wish I could have an operation,’ he said, gazing at Kitty’s drips and monitors. ‘It’s not fair, I like all this. Could I, Mum?’

Rachel insisted on taking Francesca out for tea. ‘It’ll do you good, get you away from the hospital. And I have something I really want to talk to you about.’

‘Well, what is it?’ said Francesca, when they were settled in the slightly over-chintzed lounge of the Selfridges Hotel.

‘Yes, it seemed so obvious suddenly. I can move down there, you see, sell my flat, that would pay for it easily, terrible though it seems, and well, of course I shall miss London, but I can go up fairly often, I expect, and you can all come and stay, and it is so beautiful, and Mary can live with me there and won’t have to be disrupted, she’ll be near the convent and Richard and – ’

‘Well, obviously that’s what I thought all along. From the very beginning. Only I knew if I suggested it, you’d never agree.’

‘So you don’t think it’s such a stupid idea? You think I’ll settle all right down there?’

‘Of course not. I mean, of course I don’t think it’s stupid, I think it’s a wonderful idea. I think you’ll be as happy as anything, sorting out the village. And besides,’ she added, ‘the Curdle is awfully good looking.’

‘Yes,’ said Rachel, ‘yes, you’re quite right, he is. Lonely too,’ she added.

Kirsten came to see them, with Oliver. They brought Kitty an enormous toy panda, much bigger than she was, and some flowers for Francesca; Kirsten looked rather pale, but oddly happy.

‘No, don’t say it,’ said Kirsten, ‘don’t say anything. That’s what’s happening. Isn’t it, Oliver?’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s what’s happening.’ He smiled at her, and then at Francesca. ‘Is – is Mr Channing about?’

‘I’m afraid not,’ said Francesca cheerfully, ‘he’s had to go to the police station. Why?’

‘Well, we wanted to tell him too,’ said Kirsten. ‘We thought he might quite like it.’

‘Yes, I will. He’ll like that too, I know. Very much. It’ll cheer him up, he’s got a very difficult time ahead. Well, we all have,’ she added with a heavy sigh, but still looking remarkably cheerful. ‘Especially me.’