“Probably. I meant what shall we do with all this lovely lolly?”
“Couldn’t you take the Sabbatical that’s due to you?”
“And do what with it?”
“Go for a world cruise, of course.”
“What about Rosamund and Edmund? A world cruise would be murder with two kids aged six and three and a half.”
“Oh, there will be playrooms and provision for being sea-sick and a doctor on board and a ship’s hospital.”
“What visions you conjure up!”
“Well, what about parking the children on to relatives? People would be glad to have them, I’m sure.”
“For three or four months?”
“The aunts and uncles adore them.”
“They would need to.”
“Well, at least we could put out a feeler or two. I’ve always wanted to go round the world on an ocean liner. It would be a kind of holiday for the relatives as well. We could offer them this house while we are away, and then the children wouldn’t miss going to the beach. The relatives surely would jump at free lodgings at the seaside in the summer. Anybody would.”
“Are we talking about your relatives or mine?”
“Well,” said Penelope, helping herself to butter and avoiding her husband’s eye, “I was rather thinking of yours. You’re so much cleverer at talking people into things than I am.”
Simon walked to the window and looked out at the still landscape. Between the house and the stone parapet which bordered a long slope to the shore, a huddle of small boats laid up for the winter in the shelter of the shallow harbour looked like children’s toys. At low tide the sandbanks would be uncovered and even at the quay, several miles away, no ship of more than about three thousand tons could moor, and, at that, the water in the small port had to be dredged continuously to maintain a sufficient depth.
Penelope studied the back view of her husband and then picked up the unexpected largesse of the gods, the promise of a cheque for fifty thousand pounds. It was almost impossible to credit the good fortune which had come through the letter-box that morning. It was Saturday, which accounted for Simon’s being at home and in his dressing-gown, and it also accounted for the absence of her three-year-old. With his sister aged six, she had taken him in the car to the dancing class which gave her a free couple of hours every Saturday morning and the undivided society of Simon, with whom, even after eight years of marriage, she was still sublimely in love.
She put the letter down as Simon came back to the breakfast-table.
“How keen are you on this world cruise?” he asked.
“Darling, it’s the dream of a life-time so far as I’m concerned.”
“Well, I’ve certainly got a Sabbatical coming up at the end of March, so perhaps we can find somebody mug enough to take on the kids.”
“It wouldn’t need to be just one person, you know. I agree it would be rather much to expect that. Couldn’t the aunts and uncles all take a share? And there’s that nice Mrs Gavin who is secretary to your great-aunt Dame Beatrice. Laura Gavin has always said her brother and sister-in-law would love us to go up to Scotland.”
“Yes—us as a family, not the children on their own.”
“Perhaps Mrs Gavin herself would take them up there.”
“We couldn’t suggest such a thing. What would great-aunt do for a secretary while Mrs Gavin was away? Besides, Mrs Gavin has brought up two children of her own. She won’t want to be saddled with two more.”
“Well, let’s think of somebody else. So long as we spread the load, I’m sure people will help out.”
“Well, there’s Carey in Oxfordshire…”
“With all those pigs? The children would love to go there again. Then there’s Jonathan in the Cotswolds.”
“He and Deb had the kids for three weeks last summer, if you remember.”
“There weren’t any complaints and the children had a lovely time. I’m sure Jon would have them again, and great-aunt would have them in Hampshire and Laura would take them for picnics in the New Forest. On, darling, I’m sure it will all work out. Do write to the shipping companies or see a travel agent or something and then, as soon as we know definite dates, we can write to the relatives and get everything fixed up.”
“What about Rosamund’s schooling? This pillar-to-post business you’re suggesting isn’t going to do her education any good.”
“Darling, she’s only six!”
“The law of the land has laid down—”
“Oh, I know that, but listen! Deb used to be a college lecturer, Laura Gavin was trained as a teacher and surely nobody is going to bother about two small children on Carey’s farm in Oxfordshire? If they go to Scotland they can attend the local school—or not, as the case may be. They wouldn’t be up there for more than a fortnight, anyway, and if they spend the whole of May and June here at home with somebody to look after them, Rosamund can attend school as usual. I’ll go and see Mrs Trigg and explain the situation. She’s very understanding.”
“Considering the fees we pay, that hardly surprises me.”
“What’s in the other letter?”
“This?” Simon slit it open. “Oh, Lord! The local dramatic society want to stage A Midsummer Night’s Dream out of doors and would like the loan of our garden. It’s from Brian Yorke, and of course he’s been here and knows the set-up. The previous owner used to stage his own plays here and had the lawn terraced for the purpose.”
“Shall you agree?”
“Oh, yes. I owe Yorke a favour. The fairies and the lovers can prance in and out of our wilderness in the wild woods left-centre of the lawn, while we, with any luck, shall be out on the ocean blue and a thousand miles away from it all.”
“We are going, then?”
“If we can fix up the kids, but you mustn’t be disappointed if it doesn’t come off.”
“Our own midsummer night’s dream! Oh, it’s got to come off! What can anybody have against the children?”
“Their youth, their boundless energy, the necessity for keeping an eye on them, their capacity for being wide awake and up and doing at six in the morning, their bath-times and Rosamund’s non-stop questions and general precocity.”
“She’s intelligent, not precocious. You ought to be glad she wants to know about things.”
“Other people may be less glad of it than I. But you’ve got your priorities wrong.”
“How do you mean?”
“We must see our way clear about the kids before I see about a travel agent. I believe I said that before.”
When his nephew’s letter arrived at Jonathan Bradley’s breakfast table he scanned the first page and uttered an anguished moan.
“Oh, darling, not bad news?” asked his wife Deborah.
“Bad news? You can say that again! It’s only that Simon and Penelope want us to take a share in looking after Rosamund and Edmund this summer.”
“Don’t tell me they’re getting a divorce!”
“No. They want to go on a world cruise. They’ve won a lot of money in a lottery—that new government thing—and apparently can’t wait to blue some of it.”
“I suppose it means Simon will take that Sabbatical which is due to him. I’m very glad. He works so hard, poor boy. Of course we’ll have the children.”
“That’s all very well! My God! A three-month babysit if the rest of the relatives opt out! We should never survive it.”
“Oh, nonsense, darling! The children are perfectly sweet and I’d love to have them. May I see the letter?”
Jonathan handed it over and, as his young relative had done, walked over to the window. Outside his Cotswold home lay the January snow, deep, limitless and shining, and the world was stilled in the hush that only snow can bring. At the foot of the long slope of the hill ran a little river and beyond the river rose the dark and bare-branched wood which hid the village from view.