Читать книгу: «Everything to Gain», страница 2

Even though my mother barely spoke to my father the entire time he was in Manhattan, she at least behaved in a civilized manner when they were together in public. But, not unnaturally, he departed as soon as it was decent to do so, once the reception at the Pierre was drawing to a close. My father, an archaeologist, seems to prefer the past to the present, so he had rushed back to his current dig.

He had fled my mother permanently some years before, when I was eighteen to be exact. I had gone off to Cambridge, Massachusetts, and my new life at Radcliffe College, and it was as though there was no longer a good reason for him to stay in the relationship, which had become extremely difficult for him to sustain. That they never divorced I always found odd; it was something of a mystery to me, given the circumstances.

We left the wedding reception together, he and I and my bridegroom, and rode out to Kennedy Airport in one of the grand stretch limousines my mother had hired for the wedding.

Just before we headed in different directions to catch our planes to different parts of the world, he hugged me tightly, and, as we said our goodbyes, he whispered against my hair, ‘I’m glad you did it your way, Mal, had the kind of wedding you wanted, not the big, splashy bash your mother would have preferred. You’re a maverick like me. But then that’s not half bad, is it? Always be yourself, Mal, always be true to yourself.’

It had pleased me that he’d said that, about being a maverick like he was. We had been very close since my childhood, an emotional fact that I suspect has been a constant irritant to my mother. I don’t believe she has ever understood my father, not ever in their entire life together. Sometimes I’ve wondered why they married in the first place; they are such opposites, come from worlds that are completely different. My father is from an intellectual family of academics and writers, my mother from a family of affluent real-estate developers of some social standing, and they have never shared the same interests.

Yet something must have attracted Edward Jordan to Jessica Sloane and vice versa, and they must have been in love, or thought they were, for marry they did in 1953. They brought me into the world in May 1955, and they stayed together until 1973, struggling through twenty years of bickering and quarrelling, punctuated by stony silences that lasted for months on end. And there were long absences on the part of my father, who was always off to the Middle East or South America, seeking the remains of ancient civilizations lost in the mists of antiquity.

My father aside, my mother has never understood me, either. She is not remotely conscious of what I’m about, what makes me tick. But then my mother, charming and sweet though she can be, has not been blessed with very much insight into people.

I love my mother and I know she loves me. But for years now, ever since I was a teenager, I’ve found her rather trying to be with. Unquestionably, there is a certain shallowness to her, and this is something which dismays me. She is forever concerned with her social standing, her social life, and her appearance. Not much else interests her, really. Her days revolve around her dressmaker, hair and manicure appointments, and the luncheons, dinners and cocktail parties to which she has been invited.

To me it seems such an empty, meaningless life for any woman to lead, especially in this day and age. I am more like my father, inasmuch as I’m somewhat introspective and serious-minded; I’m concerned, just as he is, about this planet we inhabit, and all that is happening on it and to it.

In many ways, the man I married greatly resembles my father in character. Like Daddy, Andrew cares, and he is honourable, strong, straightforward and dependable. True blue is the way I categorize them both.

Andrew is my first love, my only love. There will never be anyone else for me. We will be with each other for the rest of our lives, he and I. This is the one great constant in my life, one which sustains me. Our children will grow up, leave us to strike out on their own as adults, have families of their own one day. But Andrew and I will go on into our twilight years together, and this knowledge comforts me.

Suddenly, I felt the warmth of the sun on my face as its rays came filtering through the branches of the big apple tree, and I pushed myself up from the wrought-iron seat where I sat. Realizing that the day must now begin, I walked back to the house.

It was Friday the first of July, and I had no time to waste today. I had planned a special weekend for Andrew, Jamie and Lissa, and my mother-in-law who was visiting us from England, as she did every year. Monday the fourth of July was to be our big summer celebration.

Two

As I approached the house I could not help thinking how beautiful it looked this morning, gleaming white in the bright sunlight set against a backdrop of mixed green foliage under a sky of periwinkle blue.

Andrew and I fell in love with Indian Meadows the minute we set eyes on it, although it wasn’t called Indian Meadows then. It didn’t have a name at all.

Once we had bought it, the first thing I did was to christen it with a bottle of good French champagne, much to Andrew’s amusement. Jamie and Lissa, on the other hand, were baffled by my actions, not understanding at all until I explained about ships and how they were christened in exactly the same way. ‘And so why not a house,’ I had said, and they had laughed gleefully, tickled by the whole idea of it. So much so, they had wanted their own bottle of Veuve Clicquot to break against the drainpipe, as I had done, but Andrew put a stop to that immediately. ‘One bottle of good champagne going down the drain is enough for one day,’ he laughed. I’d rolled my eyes to the ceiling, but couldn’t resist flashing a smile at him as I appeased the twins, promising them some cooking wine to do their own ‘house christening’ the following day.

As for the name, I culled it from local lore, which had it that centuries ago Indians had lived in the meadows below the hill upon which our house was built. And frequently, when I am standing on the ridge looking down at the meadows, I half close my eyes and, squinting against the light, I can picture Pequot squaws, their braves and their children sitting outside their wigwams, with horses tethered nearby and pots cooking over open fires. I can almost smell the pungent wood smoke, hear their voices and laughter, the neighing of the horses, the beat of their drums.

Highly imaginative of me, perhaps, but it is a potent image and one which continues to persist. Also, it pleases me greatly to think that I and my family live on land once favoured by native Americans centuries ago, who no doubt appreciated its astonishing beauty then as we do today.

We found the house quite by accident. No, that’s not exactly true, when I look back. The house found us. That is what I believe, anyway, and I don’t suppose I will ever change my mind. It reached out to us like a living thing, and when, for the first time, we stepped over the threshold into that lovely, low-ceilinged entrance hall I knew at once that it would be ours. It was as though it had been waiting for us to make it whole, waiting for us to make it happy again. And this we have done. Everyone who visits us is struck by the feeling of tranquillity and happiness, the warm and welcoming atmosphere that pervades it, and which envelops everyone the moment they come through the front door.

But in June of 1986 I had no idea that we would finally find the house of our dreams, or any house for that matter. We had looked for such a long time for a weekend retreat in the country, without success. And so we had almost given up hope of ever finding a suitable place to escape to from New York. The houses we had viewed in various parts of Connecticut had been too small and poky, or too large, too grand, and far too expensive. Or so threadbare they would have cost a fortune to make habitable.

That particular weekend, Andrew and I were staying with friends in Sharon, an area we did not know very well. We had taken Jamie and Lissa to Mudge Pond, the town beach, for a picnic lunch on the grassy bank that ran in front of the narrow strip of sand and vast body of calm, silver-streaked water beyond.

Later, as we set out to return to Sharon, we inadvertently took a wrong turning and, completely lost, drove endlessly around the hills above the pond. As we circled the countryside, trying to get back to the main highway, we unexpectedly found ourselves at a dead end in front of a house.

By mistake, we had gone up a wide, winding driveway, believing it to be a side road which would lead us back, hopefully, to Route 41.

Startled, Andrew had brought the car to a standstill. Intrigued by the house, we had stared at it and then at each other. And in unison we had exclaimed about its charm, something which was evident despite the sorry signs of neglect and disuse which surrounded it.

Made of white clapboard, it had graceful, fluid lines and was rather picturesque, rambling along the way it did on top of the hill, set in front of a copse of dark green pines and very old, gnarled maples with great spreading branches. It was one of those classic colonial houses for which Connecticut is renowned, and it had a feeling of such mellowness about it that it truly captured our attention.

‘What a shame nobody cares enough about this lovely old place to look after it properly, to give it a fresh coat of paint,’ Andrew had murmured, and, opening the door, he got out of the car. Instructing Jenny, our English au pair, to stay inside with the children, I had quickly followed my husband.

In a way I cannot explain, certainly not in any rational sense, the house seemed to beckon us, pull us towards it, and we had found ourselves hurrying over to the front door, noticing the peeling paint and tarnished brass knocker as we did. Andrew had banged the latter, whilst I peeked in through one of the grimy windows.

Murky though the light was inside, I managed to make out pieces of furniture draped in dustcloths and walls covered with faded, rose-patterned wallpaper. There were no signs of life and naturally no one answered Andrew’s insistent knocking. ‘It looks totally deserted, Mal, as if it hasn’t been lived in for years,’ he said, and after a moment, wondered out loud: ‘Could it be for sale, do you think?’

As he put his arm around my shoulders and walked me back to the car, I found myself saying, ‘I hope it is,’ and I still remember the way my heart had missed a beat at the thought that it might very well be on the market.

A few seconds later, driving away down the winding road, I suddenly spotted the broken wooden sign, old and weatherworn and fallen over in the long grass. When I pointed it out to Andrew, he brought the car to a standstill instantly. I opened the door, leaped out and sprinted across to the grass verge to look at it.

Even before I reached the dilapidated sign, I knew, deep within myself, that it would say that the house was for sale. And I was right.

During the next few hours we had managed to find our way back to Sharon, hunted out the real-estate broker’s office, talked to her at length, then returned to the old white house on the hill. She had led the way out of town, we had followed her, and we had been almost too excited to speak to each other, hardly daring to hope that the house would be right for us.

‘It doesn’t have a name,’ Kathy Sands, the real-estate broker had remarked, as she had fitted the key in the lock and opened the front door. ‘It’s always been known as the Vane place. Well, for about seventy years anyway.’

All of us trooped inside.

Jamie and Lissa were carefully shepherded by Jenny; I carried Trixy, our little Bichon Frise, listening to Kathy’s commentary as we followed her along the gallery-like entrance, which, Andrew pointed out, was somewhat Elizabethan in style. ‘Reminds me of Tudor interior architecture,’ he had explained, glancing around admiringly as he spoke. ‘In fact, it’s rather like the gallery at Parham,’ he added. ‘You remember Parham, don’t you, Mal? That lovely old Tudor house in Sussex.’

I had nodded in response, smiling at him, sharing the remembrance of the wonderful two weeks’ holiday we had had in England the year before. It had been like a second honeymoon for us. After a week with Diana in Yorkshire we had left the twins with her and gone off alone together for a few days.

Kathy Sands was a local woman born and bred, a fund of information about everything, including the previous owners – and over the last couple of centuries at that. According to her, only three families had owned the house from the time it had been built in 1790 to the present. These were the Dodds, the Hobsons and the Vanes. Old Mrs Vane, who was formerly a Hobson, had been born in the house and had continued to live there after her marriage to Samuel Vane. Eighty-eight, widowed, and growing rather frail, she had finally had to give up her independence, had gone to live with her daughter in Sharon. And so she had put the house, which had been her home for an entire lifetime, on the market two years earlier.

‘Why hasn’t it been sold? Is there something wrong with it?’ I had asked worriedly, giving the broker one of those penetrating looks which I had learned so perfectly from my mother years before.

‘No, there’s nothing wrong with it,’ Kathy Sands had replied. ‘Nothing at all. It’s just a bit off the beaten track, too far from Manhattan for most people who are looking for a weekend place. And it is rather big.’

It did not take Andrew and me long to understand why the real-estate broker had said the house was big: it was huge. And yet despite its size, it had a compactness about it, and it was not as sprawling and spread out as it appeared to be from the outside. Although it did have more rooms than we really needed, it was a neat and tidy house, to my way of thinking, and there was a natural flow to the layout. Downstairs the rooms opened off the long gallery, upstairs from a central landing. Because its core was very old, it had a genuine quaintness to it, with floors that dipped, ceilings that sloped, beams that were lopsided. Some of the windows had panes made of antique blown glass dating back to the previous century, and there were ten fireplaces, eight of which were in working order, Kathy had told us that afternoon.

All in all, the house was something of a find and Andrew and I had known it. Never mind that it was farther from New York than we had ever planned to have a weekend home. Somehow we would manage the drive, we had reassured each other that afternoon. Andrew and I had fallen in love with the place and we wanted it, and by the end of the summer it was ours, as was a rather large mortgage.

We spent the rest of 1986 sprucing up our new possession, camping out in it as we did, and loving every moment. For the remainder of that summer and autumn our children became true country sprites, practically living outdoors, and Trixy revelled in chasing squirrels, rabbits and birds. As for Andrew and I, we felt a great release escaping the tensions of the city and he the many pressures of his high-powered job.

Finally, in the spring of 1987, we were able to move in properly, and then we set out taming the grounds and planting the various gardens around the house. This was some task in itself, and as challenging as getting the house in order. Andrew and I enjoyed working with Anna, the gardener we had found, and Andrew discovered he had green fingers, something he had never known. Everything seemed to sprout under his hands.

It did not take either of us long to understand how much we looked forward to leaving the city, and as the weeks and months passed we became more and more enamoured of this breathtaking corner of Connecticut.

Now, as I walked through the sunroom and into the long gallery, I paused for a moment, stood admiring the gentle serenity of our home.

Sunlight was spilling into the hall from the various rooms, and in the liquid rafts of brilliant light thousands of dust motes rose up, trembling in the warm July air. Suddenly, a butterfly, delicately wrought, jewel-tinted, floated past me to hover over a bowl of cut flowers on the table in the middle of the gallery.

I caught my breath, wishing I had a paintbrush and canvas at hand, so that I could capture the innocent beauty of this scene. But they were in my studio, and by the time I went to get them and returned, the butterfly surely would have flown away, I was quite certain of that. So I just continued to stand there, looking.

As I basked in the peacefulness of the early morning, thinking what a lucky woman I was to have all that I had, there was no possible way for me to know that my life was going to change – and so profoundly, so irrevocably it would never be the same again.

Nor did I know then that it was this house which would save me from the destructiveness within myself. It would become my haven, my refuge from the world. And in the end it would save my life.

But because I knew none of this, I walked blithely on down the gallery and went into the kitchen, happy at the prospect of the holiday weekend ahead, lighthearted and full of optimism about my life and the future.

Automatically, I turned on the radio, stood drinking a cup of coffee I had made earlier, while toasting a slice of bread and listening to the morning news. As I did, I studied a long list of chores I had made the night before, and mentally planned my day. Then, once I had eaten the toast, I ran upstairs to take a shower and get dressed.

Three

I have red hair, green eyes and approximately two thousand freckles. I don’t think I’m all that pretty, but Andrew does not agree with me. He is forever telling me that I’m beautiful. But, of course, beauty lies in the eye of the beholder, so I’ve been told, and anyway Andrew is prejudiced, I have to admit that.

All I know is that I wish I didn’t have these irritating freckles. If only my skin were lily white and clear I could live with my vivid colouring. My unruly mop of auburn curls has earned me various nicknames over the years, the most popular being Ginger, Carrot Top and Red, none of which have I ever cherished. Quite the opposite, in fact.

Since I have always been somewhat disdainful of my mother’s preoccupation with self, I have schooled myself not to be vain. But I suspect that secretly I am, and just as much as she is, if the truth be known. But then I think that most people are vain, care a lot about the way they look and dress, and the impression they make on others.

Now, having showered and dressed in a cotton T-shirt and white shorts, I stood in front of the mirror, peering at myself and grimacing at my image. I realized that I had spent far too long in the garden unprotected yesterday afternoon; my freckles seemed to have multiplied by the dozen.

A few fronds of hair frizzled around my temples and ears, and I sighed to myself as I slicked them back with water, wishing, as I so frequently did, that I was a pale, ethereal blonde. As far as I’m concerned, my colouring is much too vibrant, my eyes almost unnaturally green. I have inherited my colouring from my father; certainly there is no mistaking whose daughter I am. My eyes mirror his, as does my hair. Mind you, his is a sandy tone now, although it was once as fiery as mine, and his eyes are not quite as brightly green as they once were.

That’s one of the better things about getting older, I think: everything starts to fade. I keep telling myself that I’m going to look like the incomparable Katharine Hepburn when I’m in my seventies. ‘Let’s only hope so,’ Andrew usually remarks when I mention this little conceit of mine. And it is wishful thinking on my part; what woman doesn’t want those lean, thoroughbred looks of hers, red-headed or not.

Brushing back my hair, I secured it with a rubber band, then tied a piece of white ribbon on my pony tail and ran down the stairs.

My little office, where I did paperwork and household accounts, was situated at the back of the house, looking out towards the vegetable garden. Seating myself at the large old-fashioned desk, which we had found at Cricket Hill, a local antique shop, I picked up the phone and dialled our apartment in New York.

On the third ring my mother-in-law answered with a cheery, very British, ‘Hello?’

‘It’s me, Diana,’ I said, ‘and the top of the morning to you.’

‘Good morning, darling, and how is it out there?’ she asked. Not waiting for my response, she went on, ‘It’s frightfully hot here in the city, I’m afraid.’

‘I thought it would be,’ I answered. ‘And we’re having the same heat wave in Connecticut. All I can say is, thank God for air-conditioning. Anyway, how are my holy terrors today?’

She laughed. ‘Divine. And I can’t tell you how much I relish having them to myself for a couple of days. Thanks for that, Mal, it’s so very sweet and considerate of you, letting me get to know my grandchildren in this way.’

‘They love you, Diana, and they enjoy being with you,’ I said, meaning every word, then asked, ‘And what are you planning to do with them?’

‘I’m taking them to the Museum of Natural History, after breakfast. You know how they are about animals, and especially dinosaurs. Then I thought I’d bring them home for a light lunch, since it’s so nice and cool in the flat. I promised to take them to F. A. O. Schwartz after their nap. We’re going shopping for toys.’

‘Don’t spoil them,’ I warned. ‘Doting grandmothers have been known to spend far too much money at certain times. Like when they’re on holiday visits.’

Diana laughed, and over her laughter I heard my daughter wailing in the background. Then Lissa said in a shrill voice, ‘Nanna! Nanna! Jamie’s broken my bowl and the goldfish is on the carpet. Dying.’ The wailing grew louder, more dramatic.

‘I didn’t do it on purpose!’ Jamie shouted.

My mother-in-law had not spoken for a moment, no doubt distracted by this sudden racket exploding around her. Now she exclaimed, ‘Oh God, hang on a minute, Mallory, the fish is gasping. I think I’d better grab a glass of water and pop the fish in it. Won’t be a tick.’ So saying she put the phone down.

I strained to hear my children.

Jamie cried plaintively, ‘I’m sorry, Lissa.’

‘Pick up the phone and speak to your mother,’ I heard Diana instruct from a distance, sounding very brisk and businesslike. ‘She’s waiting to say hello to you, darling. Go on, Lissa, speak to your mummy,’ my mother-in-law commanded in a tone that forbade argument.

After a moment, a small tearful voice trickled down the wire. ‘Mommy, Jamie’s killed my goldfish. Poor little fish.’

‘No, I haven’t!’ Jamie shrieked at the top of his lungs.

‘Don’t cry, honey,’ I said to Lissa, then added in a reassuring voice, ‘And I’m sure your goldfish isn’t dead. I bet Nanna has it safely in water already. How did the bowl break?’

‘It was Jamie that broke it! He banged on it with a spoon and all the water fell out and my little fish.’

‘He must have been banging awfully hard to break the glass,’ I said, ‘perhaps it was already cracked. I’m sure it was an accident, and that he didn’t do it on purpose.’

In the background, Jamie cried again, ‘I’m sorry.’

Lissa said, ‘He was banging hard, Mommy. He’s mean, he was trying to frighten Swellen.’

‘Swellen?’ I repeated, my voice rising slightly. ‘What kind of name is that?’

‘She means Sue Ellen,’ Diana said to me, having relieved my daughter of the phone. ‘And I suspect the fish bowl was defective, Mal. In any case, the goldfish is alive and kicking, or should I say swimming, in one of your Pyrex dishes. I’ll get a goldfish bowl later, at the pet shop where I bought the goldfish yesterday. That’ll make her happy.’

‘You don’t have to bother buying a new one,’ I said. ‘There’s a bowl from the florist’s in the cupboard where I keep the vases. It’s perfectly adequate.’

‘Thanks for the tip, Mal. Jamie wants to speak to you.’

My son took the phone. ‘Mom, I didn’t do it on purpose, honestly I didn’t. I didn’t!’ he protested.

‘Yes, you did!’ Lissa yelled.

It was apparent to me that she was standing directly behind Jamie, I heard her so clearly. I murmured, ‘I’m sure you didn’t mean to break it, honey. But tell Lissa you’re sorry and give her a kiss. Then everything will be fine.’

‘Yes, Mom,’ he mumbled.

Because he still sounded tearful, I tried to reassure him. ‘I love you, Jamie,’ I said.

‘I love you, too, Mom,’ he answered a bit more cheerfully, and then he dropped the receiver down with a clatter.

‘Jamie, ask Nanna to come to the phone!’ I exclaimed, and repeated this several times to no avail. I was about to hang up when Diana finally came back on the line.

‘I think peace reigns once more,’ she said, and then chuckled. ‘Oh dear, I do believe I speak too soon, Mal.’

A door banged; there was the sound of Trixy barking. ‘I guess Jenny just came back from walking the pooch,’ I said.

‘Exactly. And I’d better prepare breakfast for my little troop here, then get the twins ready for their outing. And seriously, Mal, everything seems to be all right between them. They’ve kissed and made up, and Sue Ellen is happily contained in the bowl, swimming her heart out.’ She chuckled again. ‘I’d forgotten what a handful six-year-olds can be. Either that or I’m getting too old to cope.’

‘You old! Never. And if you remember, their little spats never last long. Basically, they’re very close, like most twins are.’

‘Yes, I do know that.’

‘I’ve loads of chores, Diana, so I must get on. I’ll talk to you tonight. Have a lovely day.’

‘We will, and don’t work too hard, Mallory dear. Bye-bye now.’

‘’Bye,’ I said and hung up.

My hand rested on the receiver for a few moments, my thoughts lingering with my mother-in-law.

Diana was a sweet and caring woman, a truly loving human being, and I’ve always thought it was such a shame she never remarried after Andrew’s father died in 1968, when he was very young, only forty-seven. Michael Keswick, who had never been sick a day in his life, had suffered a sudden heart attack that had proved fatal.

Michael and Diana, who originally hailed from Yorkshire and went to live in London after university, had been childhood sweethearts. They had married young, and Andrew had been born two years after their wedding; it had been an idyllic marriage until the day of Michael’s untimely death.

Diana once told me that she had met quite a few men over the years since then, but that none of them had ever really measured up to Michael.

‘Why settle for second best?’ she had said to me during one of our treasured moments of genuine intimacy. On another occasion, she had confided that she much preferred to be on her own, rather than having to cope with a man who didn’t meet her standards, did not compare favourably to Michael.

‘I’d always be making mental notes about him, passing private judgements, and it wouldn’t be fair to the poor man,’ she had said to me. ‘Being on my own means I’m independent, my own boss, and I can therefore do what I want, when I want. I can come to New York to see all of you when the mood strikes me. I can work late every night of the week, if I so wish, and I can go up to Yorkshire whenever I feel like it. Or dash over to France on a buying trip, on the spur of the moment. I don’t have to answer to anyone, I’m a free agent, and believe me, Mal, it’s better this way, it really is.’

I had asked her that day if Michael had been her only love, or if she had ever fallen in love again? And she had muttered something and glanced away. Intrigued by the way she had flushed, albeit ever so slightly, and averted her head with sudden swiftness, I had been unable to resist repeating my question.

After a moment’s hesitation and an unexpected stiffening of her shoulders, she had finally turned her face back to mine. Her gaze had been direct, her eyes filled with the honesty I’d come to appreciate and rely on. I always knew where I stood with her, and that was important to me.

Slowly, she had said in the softest of voices, ‘The only man I’ve ever been remotely interested in on a serious level, and very strongly attracted to is … not free. Separated for the longest time, but not actually divorced. And that’s not good. I mean, it would be impossible for me to have a relationship with a man who was legally tied to another woman, even if not actually living with her. Untenable really, and certainly no future in it.’

Her shoulders had relaxed again and she had shaken her head. ‘I came to the conclusion a very long time ago that I’m much better off living on my own, Mal. And I am happy, whatever you think. I’m at peace with myself.’

Despite those words that day, it has often struck me since that Diana must have moments of great sadness, of acute loneliness. But Andrew doesn’t agree with me.

‘Not Ma!’ he exclaimed when I first voiced this opinion. ‘She’s busier than a one-legged toe dancer doing Swan Lake alone and in its entirety. She’s up at the crack, behind her desk at the antique shop by six, cataloguing her stock of antiques, bossing her staff around and floating over to Paris to buy furniture and paintings and objets at the drop of a hat. Not to mention wining and dining her posh clients, and fussing over us, her dearest darlings. Then there’s her life in Yorkshire … she’s forever racing up there to make sure the old homestead hasn’t tumbled down.’

Shaking his head emphatically, he had finished, ‘Ma lonely? Never. She’s the least lonely person I know.’