A Village Affair

Martin was full of excited generosity.

'She's amazing. She's cheered us all up like anything. Allie's quite different and the children think she's wonderful.'

That's another thing. You see, the Unwins are pleased as Punch she's taken to you all. Any friend of Clodagh's is likely to be beamed on by them but your family is exactly what they want for her. They were in a frightful state when she got back from the States, made worse, of course, by the fact she wouldn't tell them anything. Margot was all for rushing her off to some frightfully expensive trick cyclist in London to have her head seen to. But life at The Grey House seems to have done the trick for nothing. Sir Ralph said this morning he hadn't seen Clodagh in such good form for years.'

Martin, whose private thoughts about Clodagh were of a guiltily excited kind, said, well, she was the greatest fun...

'Oh, she is. But she's a bad girl too. Has those poor old parents running round in circles.' He looked at his watch. 'Can I take it that your answer is at least a preliminary yes?'

Martin said, with enormous self-control, 'You may.'

Henry got up.

'I think the next step is - I mean, before you breathe a word at your office - to see Sir Ralph together. All right by you?'

'Absolutely.'

'Saturday morning? Sorry to cut into gardening time, but it wouldn't interfere with a working week and it's the one morning I have the remotest chance of his undivided attention for three minutes at least-'

Martin rose too.

'Suits me fine.'

They went out into the foyer which was now entirely empty except for an enormously fat woman wedged in an armchair and grasping a Curry's carrier bag on what remained of her knees beyond her stomach. Outside in

St John's Street they turned instinctively to one another and shook hands.

'Henry,' Martin said, 'I'm really awfully grateful.' 'Fingers crossed. If it comes off, I'll be the grateful

one. See you Saturday.' And then they separated, two pairs of well-polished brown brogues going purposefully off down the

Salisbury pavements among the dawdling shoppers and

the pushchairs.

Dutifully, Alice took the children down to Dummeridge for the day. Clodagh had wanted to come, but Alice had said no.

'Please. Why not? It's another pair of hands to help with Charlie-'

'I can't explain why not, I just know I couldn't handle it. Clodagh, it's duty I'm going for, not particular pleasure.'

'What am I going to do all Thursday?'

'Make us an amazing supper to come home to,' Alice said jokingly, but knowing Clodagh would take her seriously.

'OK then. But I'll have my pound of flesh some other way.'

Alice said happily, 'I know you will.'

At least the children had been pleased about going. Natasha had dressed herself with immense care in fancy white socks and a pink plastic jewellery set, including earrings, which Gwen had given her and which Alice knew would cause Cecily real grief. James had submitted to Alice's desire to compensate for the pink earrings by substituting brown lace-ups for his prized trainers with silver flashes on the heels, and Charlie, promoted from his carrycot to an egg-shaped safety seat in the back of the car, dah-dah'd contentedly to himself while taking off his first shoes and socks and throwing them on the floor.

It was a long drive, but all three were remarkably good. Alice talked to them a lot over her shoulder, because she felt nervous, and because the first thing she was going to have to say was that they couldn't, after all, stay the night. She should have said that at the outset, but she hadn't, and now Cecily would have made up beds and told Dorothy to set up the cot and altogether it was an awful prospect and all her own fault. And then, driving through Wareham, she had thought, with sudden indignation, that she had no idea why she should feel guilty about Martin's mother. Martin never seemed to.

Once this had occurred to her, her indignation grew. She was the one who made all the running with Dummeridge, and it was a running she had now made for over a decade. Just because she had been so conscientious, they all of course expected her to go on being conscientious, so that Martin would have been amazed to be told to remember Cecily's birthday himself, or to bring the children down to see her at Dummeridge. The last mile to the house, the leafy, sun-flecked familiar mile that Alice used to drive with such a joyfully lifting heart, seemed to have lost its charm entirely. She rounded the last curve of the road, went over the little stone bridge that spanned the remains of an ancient moat and pulled up in front of the studded front door with a kind of dread.

The children squealed for release like piglets and went racing into the house shouting for Cecily. Alice followed slowly with Charlie under one arm and his discarded shoes and socks in her free hand. Natasha and James and Cecily had collided on the stairs and were hugging and chattering, and, watching them, Alice felt small and cold. Charlie stretched out of her arm towards his grandmother, so Alice put him down on the flagged floor and let him stagger across on his soft bare feet, bleating for attention.

'Darling,' Cecily said at last, reaching Alice, 'this is a highlight. I've been looking forward to it so much you can't think. Richard's coming home tonight specially, so you really are honoured. I saw him lurking about with champagne bottles and I've got a salmon trout-'

'Where'm I sleeping?' James said.

'Jimmy James. Where d'you think? In your always bed-'

James, recalled to his own babyhood language, dissolved with pleasure.

'And I,' said Natasha, turning her pink bracelet admiringly on her wrist, 'am in the blue room. Where Mummy used to sleep. In the golden bed.'

It was too late. Alice made a feeble last try.

'D'you know, I've done such a dotty thing, I've forgotten all our night things-'

Cecily, jiggling Charlie in her arms, began to laugh.

'Oh darling, how funny! But it couldn't matter less. We'll just have to put Charlie in a hot-water-bottle cover for the night. Won't we.'

The children were visibly happy. Cecily had packed their lunch up in little baskets so that they could elude the tedium of a table and also so that she could have Alice to herself while Dorothy dotingly spooned mashed carrot and liver into Charlie in the kitchen. There were two places laid for lunch in the dining room, either side of a shallow copper bowl containing a brilliant cushion of yellow-green moss studded with scyllas. Cecily helped Alice to a fragrant stew of chicken and cashew nuts, poured her a slender glass of Chablis and said, in the businesslike tone she had promised herself she would use all day, 'Now then. I want to know when you are going to start painting again. No excuses now. Your house is almost straight, the children are settled, the village clearly thinks you are wonderful, so what are you waiting for?'

'Nothing,' Alice said coolly. 'I've started.'

Cecily stared.

'Darling!'

Two days ago.'

Cecily raised her glass.

'It's wonderful! Here's to you. Tell me all about it, exactly what happened.'

Alice was in no hurry to finish her mouthful. She said deliberately, 'Clodagh locked me into the studio. It was as simple as that. She got the children to help her and they all said I couldn't come out until teatime. At five o'clock, they unlocked the door and stood there with a chocolate cake.'

Her face was faintly glowing. It had all been so extraordinary, she had been taken completely by surprise. It had begun with Gwen coming in during the morning with a painting of a straw hat on a chair by an open french window and saying, 'I hope I'm not speaking out of turn, but this was just lying about in the spare bathroom and I picked it up and thought it was ever so pretty and then I looked and saw-'