A Village Affair

Anthony could not remember seeing his mother cry before. Indeed, her self-possession had been one of the chief things that had enraged him, as a teenager nothing, it seemed, that you could do or say shook her composure. But she was shaken now. He knew she adored Alice. The main reasons for his own desire for Alice long ago were that his mother adored her, his father liked her a great deal and Martin wanted her. And then of course there were the additional, tantalizing reasons of Alice's personality and her fascinating dislike of him. Perhaps Cecily and Alice had quarrelled. Perhaps Cecily was an interfering grandmother. Perhaps Alice's youthful infatuation with Cecily had died and there had grown up instead, as there so often did in such cases, a robust dislike of the former idol. Anthony, turning these interesting speculations over in his mind, was rather inclined to the last view. He thought he would spend a few more days at Dummeridge, or as long as it took for the festal return of the Prodigal Son atmosphere to wear off, and he would make a few calls to contacts in the City - he left a Morgan Grenfell telephone number lying about prominently - and then he would invite himself to Pitcombe. So he made himself very charming to Dorothy, and to the two young men in the garden whom his mother was training, and at meals he tried to elicit more information from Cecily about Pitcombe, information which, he was interested to notice, she seemed peculiarly reluctant to give.

'Anthony!' Alice said into the telephone. She was leaning against the kitchen wall, with Charlie, eating a biscuit, on her hip.

'I want you to ask me to stay.'

'Of course. Where are you?'

'Dummeridge.'

'Oh-'

'Exactly. What have you done to my mother?'

'Absolutely nothing.'

'Sure?'

Alice smiled at Clodagh across the kitchen.

'Just a teeny bit of independence-'

Anthony laughed.

'I see. Look. When can I come? Nobody is being very kind to me, which is tough when I'm so vastly improved.'

Alice said dreamily, her eyes on Clodagh, 'I'll be kind. I'm kind to everyone just now.'

'Why?'

'Because I'm happy.'

'What, doing the church flowers?'

'Yes.'

'Extraordinary. You do, however, sound happy.'

Clodagh bent over James, who was painting a tiny, neurotic picture of a very neat house in one corner of a large piece of paper. He leaned against her and Alice heard him say, 'You do it.' 'No, Jamie, you.' 'Clo-clo do it,' he said in a loving baby voice, gazing at her.

'Are you listening?' Anthony demanded down the telephone.

'Sort of.'

'If I come on Friday pour le weekend, how would that be ? If you're very kind to me, I might have to stay.'

'Do,' Alice said, rubbing her cheek on Charlie's head, 'whatever you like.'

'Is your house lovely?'

'Oh yes,' Alice said. 'It's perfect here. It really is. You'll see.'

She put the telephone down.

'Martin's brother.'

Natasha, who was importantly doing her homework this term's novelty - looked up from an extremely neat English exercise book to say kindly to her brother, 'Uncle Anthony. Who you have never seen.'

'Nor have you!'

'I nearly did. I was more nearly born in time. More nearly than you.'

'Was she?' James whispered up into Clodagh's hair.

"Fraidso-'

'Won't I ever be the bigger?'

Clodagh kissed him.

'In size, you will be.'

Alice came to the table and sat down with Charlie. She wanted to tell Clodagh about Anthony but Natasha's beady presence made that impossible just now. So she smiled at Clodagh, and Clodagh came round the table and kissed her, and then Charlie, and then Natasha said, 'What about a kiss for good little me doing my homework?'

Clodagh picked her off her chair.

'You're a little Tashie madam, you are-'

Natasha put her arms round her neck.

'I'm going to be like you when I grow up.'

'No. You're going to be like your lovely mother.'

'Can I too?' James said.

Clodagh put Natasha back on her chair.

'Look at you,' she said to Alice.

'Why, what-'

'The cat that got the cream-'

'Oh but I am, lorn-'

'You are so bloody beautiful.'

'Dear me,' Natasha said, 'in front of James.'

'Bloody,' James said softly to his picture, 'bloody, bloody, bloody beautiful.'

Clodagh leaned towards Alice.

'Beautiful.'

'You too.'

'No. I'm a ratface.' She put a finger on Charlie's cheek. 'And Charlie's a moonface.'

'And James,' Natasha said with deadly quietness, 'is a fishface.'

James gave a yelp. Then a car came swooping past the house and there was a chorus of 'Daddy! Daddy!' and Charlie, who had been dozing against Alice like a human teddy bear, became galvanized by the desire to join in.

It was exactly the homecoming Martin wanted. It was the best day he had had at work since the day he had been made a junior partner. He had been summoned in by Nigel Gathorne, the senior partner, to be congratulated, personally, on securing the Unwins as clients for the firm, and to be told, quite plainly, that this, particularly if he made a success of it, would contribute materially to Martin's upward rise. He then gave Martin a glass of fino sherry, a mark of approval all the junior partners recognized as being equivalent to a CBE. He was so genuinely pleased that Martin even managed to put aside all the complications and tribulations that seemed to have dogged his path since his lunch with Henry Dunne at the White Hart. If Nigel Gathorne could offer such warm and professional congratulations, then Martin's achievement must be real indeed. Coming out of Nigel's office, he felt he almost owed Clodagh an apology for his petulance over her part in it. Even thinking of her now was possible without an involuntary blush, but of course she had made that easy by being so ordinarily friendly to him and such a help with the children and such a good friend to Alice. He had, in his glow of gratitude and achievement, actually had a preliminary look at the Unwin trust papers at once, and really, it wasn't, at first glance, going to be too difficult to unscramble. He visualized a business conversation with Clodagh. It was a happy little fantasy in which he retrieved the selfesteem he had lost in that undignified little scene in the kitchen when Alice was away. At twenty past five, Martin left his office and went back to his car past the Victoria Wine Company so that he could buy a bottle of champagne, which luckily they had on a very reasonable offer indeed.

'You'll be able to handle Georgina,' Clodagh said, admiring the light through her champagne glass. 'Easy peasy.'

They were sitting in the drawing room, to celebrate.

'Is she like you?'

Clodagh avoided looking at Alice.

'Georgina is absolutely straight in every way. She'll be just like Ma, in the end, only quieter. She buys day clothes from Laura Ashley and evening ones from Caroline Charles and shoes from Bally and knickers from M & S. She's a dear.'

Alice said, head back against a chair cushion, eyes half-closed, 'Why don't you go and see her more?'

'Because, for some reason, I really like being at home just now.'

'Never,' Alice said, on the edge of laughter. She turned her head towards Martin. 'Anthony's coming. On Friday.'

Martin pulled a slight face.

'Oh well. It had to happen. How long for?'

'Don't you like him?' Clodagh said, interested. 'Why don't you?'

Alice began. 'He's-' and Martin, fearing family criticism, said quickly, 'We fought a bit when we were growing up, that's all. He's been in Japan and Hong Kong for almost ten years. He's probably changed a lot.'

'Didn't sound it,' Alice said. 'Sounded exactly the same.'

Clodagh stood up.

'I'm going to read to Tashie. And then you can say what you really think about the Unwins in peace.'