THIRTY-ONE
Mrs Hennessy was staring out at the picturesque winter morning and smiling contentedly. We’ll see about contentment, thought Pamela, as she hurried towards her mother. Never had the external manicuring of the Burlington shown to better advantage than under the coating of pristine snow.
Dreadful place, she thought. How could I have ever thought it tempting?
Neither Mrs Hennessy nor Eileen had seen her. Two sweet old ducks, thought Pam, or pretending to be. Of course, they were play-acting to some extent, and would continue to do so while they still had their marbles. They were laughing at Fate – being a bit mischievous with it; at the same time knowing that Fate was catching up on them. Pam felt like an admonishing headmistress bearing down. Nevertheless, it had to be done. A telephone call would not be enough. This was eyeball time.
She had spoken to her mother the day after her date with Peter and told her, in no uncertain terms, to leave well alone. If she was going to end her life restored to her former husband, it would be because she chose to. Mrs Hennessy was indignant. And unconvinced. Pam had gripped the phone, counted to five, and then said, ‘If you want to interfere, then interfere with Kay . . .’A little sibling grudge, but why should she, Pamela, the eldest, shoulder the burden of being interfered with?
‘Move that millpond of hers around if you like. But don’t do it to me, please. I am quite capable of stirring up my own pond life when required. . .’
Mrs Hennessy insisted that she was only trying to help.
‘No, you weren’t. You were trying to get things tied up your way. And because, unlike settled old Kay, I’m still flapping about. Well, I like flapping about at present. So have a go at her next time. You’re always saying, darkly, what will happen to poor Kay when the children leave home and Cormack suddenly dies. Why not give her a ring – now? Why not give her a ring and say, This is your mother, Kay, dear, and I just wanted to give you some advice on your impending widowhood.’
‘Pamela, you are tempting fate.’
‘Well, he won’t, Mother, will he?’ said Pam rather shortly.
‘Your father did.’
‘Yes, but there are no sodding roads up there for a ten-ton truck to come haring along and run him down.’
‘It could happen with a horse and cart,’ said Mrs Hennessy. ‘He could fall off a bridge.’
‘Mother,’ said Pam. After all, she was still feeling quite raw from her experience with Peter. ‘Mother, Cormack is not the sort of man to fall off a bridge – and if he did, he could swim.’
‘Not if the bridge was over a road.’
Give me strength, thought Pam, but she held it back. She knew she would have to go there in person. ‘Mother,’ she said, ‘I’ll come and see you soon.’ It sounded like a threat.
Good.
She arrived at the Burlington determined to be sweet. She gave her mother a kiss. And then, because it was Christmas, she gave one to Eileen, too. And a box, all wrapped up in pretty paper and ribbon. Eileen deserved something nice. She made a really excellent companion.
Eileen said, ‘Thank you, dear,’ and began to pull the ribbons apart.
Pamela handed her mother a smaller package, which she, too, began to untie.
She poured the coffee – as beige as its jug – and sat back, watching the two women open their gifts. She felt immensely relaxed. Her bags were in the back of the car, she could make a leisurely journey to the airport to catch the flight. She picked up a ginger-nut, dunked it, and sucked.
Mrs Hennessy was the first to get her parcel open. It contained a cashmere shawl. In what the friendly girl in the Scotch House called fudge.
‘Lovely, dear,’ said Mrs Hennessy, throwing it around her shoulders. There was also a small bottle of Dior. Pamela refused to let her mother go down the taupe path entirely – the woman in her was not all elderly. Mrs Hennessy opened it and smelled and, closing her eyes, said, ‘Thank you. Most acceptable.’
‘Dad’s favourite.’
Mrs Hennessy nodded.
All was forgiven. In the end it is the duty of an elderly parent to become meek.
Eileen gave a squeak. When she finally broke through the ribbons and paper tissue that Pamela had so carefully rearranged, she brought out the red satin underwear, provenance of Peter.
Everybody’s eyes met.
Nobody said anything.
Then, very gingerly at first, and gradually with a little more pleasure, Eileen began to hold its folds between her finger and thumb. ‘It’s very nice,’ she said eventually. ‘Lovely, in fact. I haven’t had anything as lovely as this for a long time.’ And, without meeting Pamela’s eye, she gave her a kiss on the cheek and murmured, ‘Most unsuitable.’
‘You’re a wicked girl,’ whispered Mrs Hennessy, when Pamela got up to leave.
‘I’ll send you a postcard,’ she said. And began to move off.
‘Give my love to Peter,’ said her mother.
Pamela gave her a look. The kind of look Mrs Hennessy used to give Pamela at times of schoolgirl transgression.
‘When you see him,’ added her mother, very innocently.
Later, sitting on their own again, Eileen smiled at Mrs Hennessy and Mrs Hennessy smiled at Eileen. They were very content. This morning they had watched the large pale turkey being carried in, and the tree (artificial, very sensibly) was dressed to gilded lily standards. They had both refused to be driven to church by the woman with a wart on her nose and a sunny smile, and were not on any of the lists for entertainments. Mistresses of their own destiny, they eyed their new gifts.
‘Lovely shawl,’ said Eileen.
‘Lovely undies,’ said Mrs Hennessy.
Eileen tapped the box. ‘Shall I?’ she asked.
Mrs Hennessy nodded. ‘Oh, I think you must.’
And they both turned and beckoned to the girl in the orange cardigan and brown pleats, who was busy taking requests for the carol service.
In the distance they could see Pamela’s car driving up the gravel path, round the bend and out into the world. Just, thought her mother, as it should be, really.