The Hidden Years. Penny Jordan
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step into her mother’s shoes once they had met.
‘No trouble at all,’ she responded automatically, as she made a note of the exact time of the meeting and promised to be there fifteen minutes earlier so that she could meet the rest of the committee.
‘Was that the hospital?’ Faye asked anxiously, coming downstairs towards her. If anything her sister-in-law looked even more drawn this morning, Sage recognised, turning to answer her, and even more frail.
Why was it that when confronted with Faye’s ethereal, haunted delicacy she immediately felt the size of a carthorse and twice as robust? And, even worse, she felt rawly aware that as her mother’s daughter she ought to be the one who looked harrowed to the point of breakdown.
‘No, it was a Mrs Henderson; she’s on the committee for the protest against the new road. She was ringing about this evening’s meeting. It’s just as well you’d mentioned it to me, otherwise I shouldn’t have had a clue what she was talking about. I’ve arranged to be there fifteen minutes before the meeting starts. I’m afraid that means I’m going to have to spend the afternoon reading through Mother’s papers and files, which means that you’ll be left to field telephone calls and enquiries.
‘Jenny was telling me when she brought my tea that virtually half the village came round yesterday to ask how Mother is. If you’re finding all this a bit much, Faye, and you’d like to get away for a few days…’
Immediately Faye went so pale that Sage felt as though she’d threatened her in some way and not offered her an escape route from the pressure she was undoubtedly suffering. She was so sensitive that the constant enquiries about her mother’s health, the constant reminders of how slim her actual chances of full recovery were, were obviously proving too much for her.
‘Oh, no…I’d rather stay here…but if I’m in your way…’
‘In my way!’ Sage grimaced. ‘Faye, don’t be ridiculous, nor so self-effacing; this is your home far more than it has ever been mine. I’m the one who should be asking you that question. In fact I was going to ask if it would be too much of an imposition if I moved myself in here for the duration of Mother’s recovery. And, before you say anything, that means all the extra hassle of my clients telephoning here, and I’m afraid I’ll have to sort myself out a workroom of some sort. I can take some time off but…’
‘But if Liz does recover, it’s going to be a long, slow process,’ Faye finished bleakly for her.
‘Yes. I was thinking about that this morning. Last night, in the euphoria of knowing that she was at least alive, one tended to overlook the fact that being alive is a long way from being fit and healthy…’
‘I suppose deep down inside I wasn’t ready to acknowledge then that Liz might not recover. I’ve leaned on her for so long…’ Faye pulled a small face. ‘I wish I could be more like you—independent, self-sufficient… But realising how dangerously ill Liz is brought home to me how much I’ve come to rely on her…’
So that was the reason for her sister-in-law’s wan face—well, there was one issue on which she could reassure her right away, Sage decided, and said bluntly, ‘I can’t promise you that Mother will recover, Faye, but if you’re worrying about the practicalities of life… well, should the worst happen, then please don’t. Cottingdean will always be your home. Knowing my mother, she’ll have done the sensible thing that so few of us do and already drafted her will. I’m quite sure that in it she will have made it plain that Cottingdean will eventually belong to Camilla…’ She saw that Faye was going to object and stopped her. ‘No…please don’t think I should mind. I shouldn’t… If anything, I’m the one who is the intruder here, who doesn’t belong, and, please, if you’d rather I went back to London and left you to manage here without me, don’t be afraid to say so.’
‘That’s the last thing I want,’ Faye told her honestly. ‘I couldn’t possibly cope on my own, and as for this not being your home…’ She went a faint and pretty pink with indignation. ‘That’s nonsense and you know it.’
‘Is it?’ Sage asked her drily, and then concluded, ‘Heaven knows how long you’re going to have to put up with me here, but I want you to promise me that if there are any problems caused by my presence you’ll come right out and tell me. I’m not very good at being tactful, Faye, nor at reading subtle hints of displeasure. If I’m responsible for something happening that you don’t like, just tell me.’
‘I think Jenny’s the one you ought to be saying that to, not me.’ Faye smiled at her. ‘She’s the one who’s really in charge.’
Sage had turned to walk towards the small sunny breakfast-room where Jenny had said she would serve their breakfast, and, as Faye fell into step beside her, the latter asked hesitantly,
‘And Alexi—will he mind that you’ll be living here and not—?’
‘What Alexi minds or doesn’t mind no longer matters,’ Sage told her crisply. ‘And if he rings up and makes a nuisance of himself, Faye, just hang up on him. I’d planned to visit the hospital this morning and then I ought to call in at the office—there’ll be a few arrangements. I’ll have to have my calls and post transferred here… Would you and Camilla like to come to the hospital with me, or would you prefer to visit Mother on your own, now that the doctor says visits are allowable?’
‘No, we’ll come with you, if you’re sure that’s all right…’
They were in the breakfast-room now. It faced south and was decorated in warm shades of yellow with touches of fresh blue.
Outside, Jenny’s husband was already working in the garden. The breakfast-room had french windows which opened out on to a small private terrace with steps leading down to a smooth lawned walk flanked by double borders enclosed by clipped yew hedges that carried the eye down the length of the path to focus on the statue of Pan at the far end of the vista.
When her mother had first come to Cottingdean, neither the borders nor the vista had existed, just a wild tangle of weeds. What faith she must have had in the future to plan this mellow green perfection out of such chaos, and yet how could she have had? Cottingdean had been a decaying, mouldering ruin. There had been no money to restore it, and certainly no money to spend on creating an elegant and useless garden; she had had a husband whose health was uncertain, a baby on the way…no family, no friend, no one to help her, and yet in her first summer at the house she had sat down and planned this view, this garden, knowing that it would take years to mature.
Why? In the past Sage had always attributed her mother’s vision to stubborn pride, to a refusal to let anything stand in the way of her will, and yet now, illuminatingly, she suddenly saw her actions as the kind of wild, impulsive, desperate thing she might have done herself: a fierce battling against the weight of burdens so crippling that one either had to defy them or be destroyed by them.
‘Sage, are you all right?’
As Faye touched her arm in concern, she turned to look at her, unaware of the stark anguish and pain that shadowed her eyes.
‘I was just thinking about Mother’s garden,’ she said shakily, ‘wondering what on earth gave her the faith to believe it would ever come to fruition.’
She could see that Faye didn’t understand: why should she? Faye hadn’t, as yet, read the diaries, and stupidly Sage was reluctant to suggest that she should, not yet… not until… Not until what? It was ridiculous of her to have this sensation of somehow needing to protect her mother, to make sure that… That what? It was her mother’s wish that they all read what she had written…all of them…
‘Here’s Camilla,’ Faye announced, breaking into her too introspective mood. She turned to her daughter as she hurried into the breakfast-room via the terrace and reproached her gently, ‘Darling, I think you ought to have gone upstairs and changed before breakfast, I’m sure Sage doesn’t want to eat hers sitting next to someone who smells of horses…’
‘Gran never minded,’ Camilla