CHAPTER FOURTEEN

‘We’re going on holiday,’ Lizzie tells Pidge with great excitement as soon as she comes upstairs, one July evening. ‘We’re going to the seaside and Angel is going to buy me a bucket and spade.’

Pidge stares at Angel, stretched along the sofa, her eyebrows high with disbelief.

‘To the seaside?’

‘Isn’t it exciting, sweetie?’ Angel doesn’t move and she keeps her eyes closed. ‘I do think it’s time Lizzie had a little holiday. A proper holiday near the sea.’

‘We’re going on a train.’ Lizzie clasps her hands together, hardly able to believe her good fortune. ‘And there’s a castle.’

‘Hold on,’ begs Pidge. ‘This is very exciting but why the unexpected need for ozone, Angel?’ A thought occurs to her and she looks suddenly grave. ‘And does this place, which has a castle and is near the sea, happen to be on Exmoor?’

Angel sits up suddenly, dragging her wrapper around her.

‘Sweetie,’ she says to Lizzie, ‘just go into my bedroom and see if you can find my cigarettes, would you?’

‘What are you up to?’ asks Pidge in a low voice as soon as Lizzie disappears. ‘This is madness, Angel. Much worse than Molly’s party. Remember how you felt then?’

‘I can’t help it.’ She stares up at Pidge miserably. ‘He can’t come up this month because he’s taking his holiday and next month the office here is closed for some repairs or something and they’re postponing the partners’ meeting until September. It’ll be three months until I see him again, Pidge. Three months. How can I bear it?’

‘It’ll be three months anyway, Angel,’ answers Pidge urgently. ‘Or . . .’ she frowns, ‘do you mean that Felix has set this holiday up?’

Angel shakes her head, pressing her lips together, looking away.

‘No, of course he hasn’t,’ says Pidge impatiently. ‘Stupid of me to think that he’d be so foolish. Please don’t do this, Angel.’

‘You don’t understand.’ Angel stands up, taking Pidge’s arm. ‘You see, it’s simply that I can’t just go on waiting. There’s something so . . . oh, I don’t know, degrading about it. It’s not his fault, I know that, but I’ve got to make a move of my own. Do you see what I mean?’

‘Yes,’ says Pidge gently. ‘Yes, of course I do, love, but it’s the wrong move. You won’t see him or if you do it’ll be like the party all over again and you’ll just feel horrid about the whole thing. Can you imagine how Felix will react if he comes across you and Lizzie in Dunster High Street? Especially if he has his wife and son with him? You’ll blow it wide open and then what will you be left with?’

‘I don’t know.’ Angel looks distressed. ‘But sometimes I think it’s better than doing nothing at all. One day he’s going to leave me anyway, Pidge.’

Pidge looks at her compassionately, seeing that this is not the moment to talk about Lizzie’s part – or her own – in the relationship, or about Felix himself.

‘Think it over,’ she pleads.

‘I’ve booked the cottage,’ says Angel defiantly. ‘I saw it advertised in the Sunday paper weeks ago and kept it just in case. Anyway, Lizzie will love it.’

Before Pidge can reply Lizzie is back.

‘I can’t find them anywhere,’ she tells Angel. ‘I’ve searched and searched.’

‘Oh, here they are,’ cries Angel, retrieving the case from the side of the chair where she has hidden it earlier. ‘I am an idiot. Sorry, sweetie.’

‘I wish you could come with us,’ says Lizzie to Pidge, her eyes bright with excitement, ‘but Angel only has a few weeks between her contracts and she says you can’t get away from the library in August.’

‘No,’ agrees Pidge after a moment. ‘No, I can’t get away from the library.’

‘We’ll send you a postcard, sweetie,’ says Angel.

She looks at Pidge with a wheedling grin, rather as a naughty but penitent child might seek forgiveness, and Pidge cannot help but smile back at her.

‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You do that.’

Lizzie hurries away to her attic room and wonders what she will take with her on holiday. She drags out her little suitcase, puts it on her bed and opens it: how small it looks. The battered teddy, which belonged to Michael Blake, must certainly go to Dunster and the small felt penguin – a present from Felix after a memorable birthday visit to the zoo – must also be of the party. She holds him in her hand, admiring his smart black-and-white coat and cheerful yellow beak and feet. Eyes closed, she remembers walking between Angel and Felix, just like a real family, and how they sat in the sunshine outside the small café and she ate an ice whilst the others drank coffee.

The penguin arrived by post later: ‘I came across this Penguin Person from Porlock on his way to Bristol Zoo,’ Felix wrote in the card, and she named him Porlock because it has rather a good ring to it. She still has the card.

Singing to herself, Lizzie begins to pack her case.

Sitting in the shade of some furze, up on the hill behind the garth, Piers dries his eyes on his handkerchief and puts his arm about Monty’s neck. Nobody has told him how unexpectedly grief strikes, catching you between a moment and a moment, crippling you with pain, making it impossible to swallow. Just now, as he watched the little bird, swinging and hopping in the topmost branches of the wind-shaped thorn, he turned instinctively to point it out to his grandfather: to confirm that it was the male stonechat, with his chestnut breast and black head. It was a terrific shock to find himself alone; no old man, leaning on his stick, watching the tiny bird with that dear, familiar expression that combined wonder, joy and gratitude, even though he’d seen the sight a hundred times before. Piers felt bereft then, as shocked and lonely as when his mother had explained that Grandfather had gone away and couldn’t ever come back.

Each week he rides down to the churchyard on his new bicycle, Monty racing alongside, and goes to see the old man’s grave. Although Monty is always put on his lead, his mother is not happy about dogs going into churchyards but the old sexton agrees with Piers that David Frayn would like to know that his dog visits him from time to time.

‘Although that’s just his chrysalis,’ explains Piers. ‘He’s changed now, you know.’

The sexton nods wisely and leaves them to it, sitting together on the grassy mound in the sunshine, the little boy talking and talking to the dog – and to his grandfather – whilst he watches them from beneath the shadow of the yews lest the young fellow should get upset.

But it’s at the most unexpected moments that Piers gets upset; moments that take him by surprise and which he can’t control.

‘Big boys don’t cry,’ warns his mother, so that Piers knows that he must never show the tears and he wipes his face again now as he hears her calling from the garth below. They are going shopping in Dunster and he hurries down the hill, slipping on the dry, loose scree, still rubbing his face with his handkerchief.

‘Goodness, you do look hot,’ she says, pushing back his hair from his eyes, straightening his Aertex shirt. ‘What a ragamuffin! Come in and be tidied up. No, we can’t take Monty, it’ll be far too hot for him in the car.’

Sometimes, as they drive through the lanes in the Morris, Piers remembers that last journey to Stoke Pero but today he stares the tears away, looking for the first blossoming of bell heather on Dunkery, seeing the white scut of a rabbit running in the ditch.

The village drowses in the afternoon sunshine, the rose-red castle standing guardian on the hill, and he follows his mother from the post office to the chemist and finally to Parhams. There are several people in the shop but his attention is immediately taken by a little girl, rather younger than he is, who stares about her, singing just beneath her breath. She wears a yellow frock and her thick plait is reddish gold and tied with a yellow ribbon. She turns suddenly, seeing him for the first time, and he sees that her eyes are amber-brown and rather shy although she looks friendly, as though she would like to smile at him.

He straightens up, stealthily trying to let go of his mother’s hand in order to show that he is not a baby but a big boy who is going away to school next term, yet his face cannot help but respond to that cheerful little look. Alerted by the wriggling of his fingers, his mother glances down at him and then immediately at the object of his interest. At this moment the woman with the little girl turns too, and the four of them seem fixed for a brief moment in time, gazing at each other, until Piers feels his hand gripped even tighter and he is pulled away.

‘I can’t be bothered to wait,’ says his mother.

Her cheeks are red and hot-looking, her mouth pinched, and he looks up at her anxiously as they hurry back to the car.

‘Are you ill?’ he asks, remembering his grandfather. ‘Are you all right, Mummy?’

‘Quite all right,’ she answers briefly but, as they drive back to Michaelgarth, he knows that there is something wrong, as if her thoughts are rushing ahead of the car, and he feels frightened.

All the time that she is putting away the shopping, making his tea, it seems that she is waiting for something; as if, deep inside, her feelings are twisting tighter and tighter, like a spring. When his father comes home he passes through the hall and into the study to pour himself a drink and, from his position up on the landing, Piers watches his mother follow him. He slips quietly down the stairs and into the hall, creeping along the passage until he can see them both through the half-open door.

‘. . .  What a fool I’ve been,’ his mother is saying, ‘haven’t I? I should have guessed long ago. Oh, don’t pretend any more, Felix. I saw that woman today in Dunster. That actress. She’s your mistress, isn’t she? She had a child with her. I suppose she isn’t yours, by any chance?’

Piers knows at once that she is talking about the people they saw earlier in Parhams: the fair, pretty woman with the little girl. But what does it mean? He thinks confusedly of his kindly old schoolmistress but, even as he moves a little closer, he sees his father put down his glass with an angry exclamation and come striding towards the door and guesses that he has been seen.

He turns at once, running across the hall and out through the scullery, into the garth where Monty is sleeping on the cool cobbles, and all the while the words beat in his brain in time with his running feet. She had a child with her . . . she isn’t yours, by any chance?

By the time Felix arrives at the scullery door, both boy and dog have vanished.