FRANCIS STANDS AT his window. It is high summer and in the newly harvested fields the gulls look as if they are floating on a pale golden sea. Nearer at hand, the mower stands idle on the lawn where Rob has abandoned it. Two canvas garden chairs have been put on to the gravel carriage drive, where they have fallen forward on their knees as if they are praying.
Soon, Brockscombe will be empty. Contracts have been exchanged and completion will take place within a few weeks, though there is no pressure being exerted. Francis feels quite calm: he is certain now that all will be well. His sons will be able to have the money for their retirement investment and his little family is preparing to move on. Charlotte and Oliver, with Wooster, are going to her parents in Tavistock until Andy arrives home from sea. Charlotte has lost her fear of going to Washington; Andy has restored her confidence and their love is renewed and confirmed. Kat will soon be leaving for London, excited by the prospect of the work that lies ahead. William has made an offer on a town house in Ashburton that looks over the green and has a little courtyard garden. The ground floor, which used to be a shop, is to be Francis’ new quarters.
‘You’ll be able to see people coming and going,’ William says, anxiously, knowing that nothing will make up for what Francis is leaving behind him. ‘And you’ll have direct access out into the courtyard. I’ve got great plans for the courtyard, I can tell you.’
Francis smiles at him and agrees that he’ll enjoy the change of scene and trips to the pub with William. Neither of them is fooled but it’s a very fair compromise. There’s a big spare bedroom for guests and a smaller one for Maxie with room for the toys and books to be stored. It’s a pretty, elegant house and Francis is grateful. He’s offered to contribute towards its cost but William won’t hear of it. He’s made some good investments with the money from his former house, he says, and Francis respects this. He insists on paying for the necessary conversion of the ground floor, however, and William has given in over this one.
There seems to be no mention of Fiona having any part to play in the purchase of the new property. Since Andy’s leave she hasn’t been down, and Francis suspects that the brief flowering of the old affection between her and William, back in the early summer, has died a natural death. Francis is glad of it. He can’t believe that Fiona would ever settle happily again in Ashburton and he thinks that it’s better for William to pursue his own friends and occupations without tensions and regrets.
As for Tim . . . Francis smiles when he thinks of Tim and Mattie, house-hunting in Exeter.
‘We’re having a baby,’ Tim said to him, ‘but it’s a secret just for the moment. We’re going to get engaged, find a little house – thank God I’ve got Gran’s money – and then take it from there. I feel that I should tell Mattie’s parents the truth but she wants me to wait and I shall trust her to know when the time is right. I wanted you to know, though, that in the end I decided that I can choose. And I’ve chosen life.’
‘A baby,’ Francis said. ‘How wonderful.’
‘Yes.’ Tim looked dazed, awed. ‘So I shall be a father. It’s odd, isn’t it, when only days ago I believed I had no future?’
Francis could see that he was full of joy and fear; of pride and doubts.
‘Congratulations,’ Francis said. ‘Let me know when it’s appropriate to celebrate more publicly,’ and Tim beamed at him, happy suddenly, optimistic, and said, ‘You’ll be the first to know.’
Francis longs for his happiness; for the wellbeing of Mattie and the child. He is overcome with emotion for this boy whom he looks upon as his son, along with William and Maxie, as well as his own boys: all his sons. How dear and precious they are to him.
The sudden pain in his heart is sharp and he catches his breath. He turns away from the window with short fumbling steps and collapses into his chair, his stick falling to the floor. He can hear someone moving in the house, on the landing, and he calls out weakly, hoping it is Stella.
But it is Maxie who comes in to him, though Francis hasn’t the strength to speak to him. It is Maxie who kneels down beside him, and strokes his hair and croons to him, as if he knows that Francis is falling asleep. He takes his father’s cold hand in his large warm one and covers it with kisses and leans against him as though to keep him warm. With an enormous effort Francis raises his other hand and lays it on Maxie’s head, and then gives way to the pain. But it is not of Maxie that he thinks now, nor of Nell nor Liz nor of his boys. His last thought is of Father Theo, his intent look of compassionate love, and of his prayer . . .
. . . so I shall rejoice:
you will not delay, if I do not fail to hope.