“No harm!” Groping through the blankness of her misery, Phil arrived at a positive and tonic fury. Her cheeks flushed scarlet, and paled again to a pinched and frightening whiteness. “No harm! You drive that poor boy away with the bottom knocked out of his world, not knowing who or what he is, and you say you’ve done him no harm!”
“It means we’re probably all wrong about his being in danger from our murderer,” pointed out George quickly, with a gentling hand on her arm. “He’s shocked and hurt and wretched, he wants to hide, that’s all understandable. But it means he’s probably staying away of his own will, and when he’s come to terms with it he’ll come home. It isn’t as bad as what we were afraid of.”
“It is, George, it’s almost worse. He’ll be in such a state he might do anything.” She turned frantically upon Miss Rachel, who was backed into her great chair with hackles erect, ready for a fight. “How would you feel, you wicked old woman, if you suddenly found you weren’t who you thought you were, and your parents weren’t your parents, and everything you had was borrowed? Even your identity?” She gripped the edge of the table, and demanded urgently: “Did you tell him who he was? But you couldn’t—we never told you, thank God, so you didn’t know.”
“Oh, yes, my dear Phil, I did know. His father told me himself—right here in the garden, no longer ago than Wednesday afternoon. He told me quite a lot. But I didn’t tell Paddy. I don’t have to tell everything I know.” She drew breath before Phil could ride over her again, and pursued belligerently: “But you’d better. Oh, I know, Simon thinks he can twist me round his finger. Maybe I like it that way. But don’t think I’ve got any illusions about him. I like him very much, but sooner or later he’ll make a bid for what he wants. And if you haven’t noticed that he’s beginning to want Paddy, very much indeed, you’d better wake up, quickly.”
George, whose experience in breaking up fights between women was still somewhat inadequate to such a situation as this, felt profound gratitude to the telephone for ringing just then. It gave him something to do, more constructive than listening to family secrets it would be his duty promptly to forget again, and it distracted the attention of both the embattled females. He picked up the receiver thankfully.
“Treverra Place. This is George Felse. Oh, yes—yes, she’s here. Phil, it’s Tamsin Holt for you.”
Phil clutched the receiver convulsively, afraid to hope. “Tamsin, what is it? Have you—You have! Thank God! He’s all right?”
Her knees gave under her, she was suddenly limp as silk, and George slid a chair under her and eased her into it.
“He’s all right! They’ve found him. In the Dragon’s Hole. The tide caught him inside there. Aunt Rachel, it’s all right! They’ve found him—Tamsin and Dominic. I don’t care now, nothing else matters. I don’t care what you told him, he’s all right. Tam—we’re on our way down, we’ll meet you. Take care of him! Don’t you let him out of your sight again. The little demon! Honestly, I’ll murder him! You’re sure he isn’t hurt? God bless you, Tam! We’re on our way.”
She let the receiver slip nervelessly down into its cradle. She was in tears, and trembling. “George, can you drive a Mini? I—don’t think I’m capable—Oh, George, I want Tim!”
George got her to her feet and out to the car. No one had even a glance to spare for Miss Rachel, braced and defensive in her high-backed chair.
As soon as they were out of the doorway she hopped suddenly out of her sanctuary behind the cold dinner-tray, and danced the length of the room and the library, like an agile girl, until her piled grey hair came down round her shoulders, and she was out of breath. Then, having carefully reassembled her magnificent coiffure and her even more magnificent personal assurance, she rang the bell for Alice, and demanded food.
On their way down through the town they picked up Tim. Phil clung to him in the back seat, pouring out the best and the worst of the news, and swinging breathlessly between rage and joy. Tim held her in his arms and shook with the vehemence of her trembling, and implored her first, and then ordered her, just as ineffectively, to be calm and matter-of-fact, and take the whole thing easily. Hadn’t they agreed from the beginning that with a child not your own you must take nothing for granted, that you had to exercise twice as much care and self-control as natural parents, and earn every morsel of your gift-son’s affection? Restraint, no too greedy love, no too lavish indulgences and no too exacting demands, that was the way. If she let herself go now, she’d push the boy right over the edge, and break something.
“Here they are,” said George at the wheel, and drew the Mini in to the kerb just below the square, the dilapidated trio before them caught and dazzled in its lights. A slim, taut, brittle figure toiled up the hill between two muddy supporters just recognisable as Tamsin and Dominic. He had been drooping badly a moment before, but now he was braced to meet them. The moment was on top of him; he wasn’t ready, but he never would be ready, it might as well happen and get it over. A pale, grime-streaked face stared, all enormous, shocked eyes. Phil lunged for the doorhandle and was half out of the car before it came to a halt.
“Phil, you must be calm—”
“To hell with being calm!” shouted Phil, in a splendid flare of wrathful joy, and hurled herself upon her stray in a flurry of abuse, endearments and reproaches.
Paddy’s parent problem was swept away in the warm, sweet hurricane. After all, he didn’t have to make any decisions about how to behave, he didn’t have to do anything at all. The meeting he had been dreading was taken clean out of his hands. He was plucked from between his henchmen, hugged, shaken, even he seemed to remember afterwards with respect and astonishment, slapped, a thing he couldn’t remember ever having happened to him before in his life. Tim snatched him from Phil to feel him all over, swear at him heartily, strip him of his wet and filthy sweater, and bundle him into a warm, dry sportscoat much too big for him. He could hardly get a word in edgeways, all he managed was: “I’m sorry!” and: “I didn’t mean to!” and: “I couldn’t help it!” at intervals. And he had been shrinking from the thought of moderated voices and careful handling, into which he would inevitably have read all sorts of reservations! There weren’t any moderated voices round here, he couldn’t hear himself think; and the way he was being handled, he was going to start coming to pieces shortly. This sort of thing there was no mistaking. He was loved, all right. She was frantic about him, and Dad wasn’t much better. This, he thought, hustled and scolded and abused and caressed into dazed silence, this is exactly how parents behave.
“Into that car,” ordered Tim, growing grimmer by the minute now that he had satisfied himself that he had his son back with hardly a scratch on him. “You’re going to apologise to Mr. Hewitt for all the trouble you’ve caused everybody, and you’d better make it good.” And when he had him penned into the back seat, with Phil to cushion him comfortably, he had to rummage out the old car rug and tuck him into it like a cocoon, and all to go the two hundred yards to the police station.
The rest of the evening always remained to him a crazy confusion, from which fleeting remarks emerged at times to tickle his memory. The one overwhelming thing about it was that all of it, every bit, was good, better than anything had ever been before, or perhaps ever would be again. To have happiness and know that you have it, and know how wonderful it is to know it, that’s almost too much for any one day.