Morgan's Child. Anne Mather
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practically, marching back into the kitchen. ‘And then I’ll speak to your in-laws.’ he called over his shoulder. ‘It’s time we told them that you’re all right.’
Fliss could hear the kettle boiling now, and presently she heard the rattle of the teapot lid as Graham poured the water into the pot. His large hands moved so clumsily among the china cups and saucers, and she walked to the doorway to watch him setting two of each on the tray.
Fliss’s eyes filled with affection. Although he hadn’t spent a lot of time at the cottage, he was quite familiar with domestic tasks. He had a housekeeper at the vicarage, but Mrs Arnold was quite elderly, and he was not averse to helping out on occasions.
But there was no denying that he dwarfed his surroundings. Everything about Graham was large, from his size ten shoes to his six feet something in height. He was too heavy, of course, and Fliss had declared that after they were married he would have to go on a diet. But until then Mrs Arnold’s fare of suet pastry and steamed puddings would continue to do his health no good.
‘There.’
He picked up the tray and followed her into the living room again, but before he could pour the tea someone knocked at the door. Fliss tensed, but it was only Mrs Arnold, who’d come to find the vicar. Old Mr Crabtree was very poorly, she said, and his son had called to ask if Reverend Bland could come at once.
‘Damn!’ Graham seldom swore, but he was obviously frustrated at that moment. ‘Will you be all right, Fliss?’ he asked anxiously, after sending Mrs Arnold on her way. ‘I’ll try to get back later, but I’m afraid it may be too late to make that call.’
‘I’ll do it,’ Fliss assured him firmly, accompanying him to the door and helping him on with his coat. ‘It’s probably better if I make it anyway. I don’t want them thinking I’m in a state of collapse.’
‘Even if you are,’ remarked Graham drily, buttoning his overcoat. ‘Now, are you sure you’ll be all right on your own? I can always ask Mrs Arnold to come back and keep you company.’
’I’m fine,’ she insisted, ushering him out of the door and then closing it again with rather more urgency than tact. But the last thing she needed was Mrs Arnold gossiping about what had happened. And, despite what she’d said, she doubted she’d ever feel all right again.
The Rikers arrived the next morning.
Fliss was drinking her umpteenth cup of coffee when she heard the car outside, and she wondered if it was the caffeine that was responsible for the rawness of her nerves. She should be thinking about Morgan, dammit, stuck in some hospital in Kantanga, without anyone he cared about around him. Instead of which, she was feeling sorry for herself. What kind of a wife had she turned out to be?
Graham had rung at half-past seven that morning. He’d apologised for not getting back to her the night before and hoped she’d managed to get some sleep. Fliss assured him she had, though in actual fact she hadn’t. She’d gone to bed, but she’d stared at the ceiling for most of the night.
And it had turned out that he was ringing not just to enquire about her health but also to assure her that he didn’t expect her to attend the church’s coffee morning. It went without saying, he said, that on this occasion they would have to do without her famous scones. It was only as he spoke that Fliss realised how remote from ordinary events the whole situation was. Until then, that element of unreality had prevailed.
The trouble was, deep down, she still harboured some bitterness towards her husband. She didn’t resent the fact that be was alive, of course—although even now she still found that hard to accept. What she was bitter about was the fact that Morgan had chosen to put his life in such danger. When she’d believed he was dead, she’d been forced to forgive him. Discovering he was alive reminded her of how reckless he had been.
It wasn’t as if he’d had to go to Nyanda. He had been a writer, for God’s sake, and he didn’t owe his old firm any favours. He’d left the Giles Corporation eighteen months before when he’d sold the manuscript of his first novel. It was based on his experiences in Bosnia, and his agent had been sure it would be an immediate success.
He’d joined the army after leaving university, but when he’d met Fliss he’d wanted to stay in one place. As an electronics expert, his job with one of the largest missile specialists in the country had seemed ideal for the purpose, until he’d seen the after-effects of a missile attack on a Bosnian village and had second thoughts.
The idea to try and put his experiences down on paper had been his salvation, and only the fact that the job in Nyanda entailed decommissioning missiles that General Ungave’s men had captured from the rebels had persuaded him to accept Paul Giles’s request. The money was good, he’d told Fliss, and the experience wouldn’t be wasted. At least there would be fewer missiles for the rebels to use.
So he’d gone, and look what had happened. Despite all his promises, he’d disappeared and they’d been told he was dead. And now be was back—well, almost—and she was supposed to welcome him with open arms. Where had he been? What had he been doing? Why hadn’t he let them know he was still alive?
But thoughts like these were far too upsetting, and she had to maintain an optimistic front for the Rikers’ sake. Besides, she was glad he was alive; she was just confused, that was all, she told herself. It was bound to take some time to sink in.
‘Oh, Fliss!’
As expected, Celia burst into tears as soon as her daughter-in-law opened the door. Fliss barely had time to invite them in before Morgan’s mother had gathered her into her arms, and she found her own face was wet when she let her go.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said, glad to escape her father-in-law’s searching gaze. Last night she’d found it hard to offer anything positive, and it was obvious that Morgan’s parents expected her to share their joy.
Celia followed her into the kitchen, and stood pressing her hands down onto the cool surface of the counter. A small woman, with greying blonde hair and blue eyes, she was obviously in a state of barely suppressed agitation, and Fliss hoped she wasn’t going to let them down.
‘It’s such wonderful news!’ Celia exclaimed, not for the first time, and Fliss managed a matching smile. ‘To think, just a couple of days ago James and I were discussing the fact that it was almost four years since—since Morgan disappeared.’ She caught her breath. ‘Oh, Felicity, I can’t believe he’s coming home!’
‘When—when is he coming home?’
Fliss knew her words lacked the same enthusiasm, but Morgan’s mother didn’t seem to notice. ‘Welt—according to the letter—you did read the letter, didn’t you? You said last night you’d found it among your other mail.’ Fliss nodded, and she continued, ‘They say he’s suffering from some kind of stomach infection. Is that a polite way of saying he’s had dysentery, do you think?’
‘I—I don’t know—’
Fliss hadn’t thought of that, and she was grateful when Morgan’s father intervened. ‘It could be something minor,’ he said, ‘or it could be some tropical infection. Let’s not go jumping to conclusions before. we know.’
‘Anyway,’ went on Celia, ‘James spoke to the Foreign Office again this morning. He wanted to find out if we could fly out to Nyanda ourselves.’ She grimaced. ‘But with all the inoculations we’d need, and the fact that there are still patches of resistance in the country, we’ve been advised to wait until he can come home.’
Until he came home...
Fliss’s hand shook as she made the tea, but no one seemed to think there was anything unusual in that. They’d all had a shock. Dear God, that hardly covered the way she felt. She was shaking in her shoes at what it meant.
‘Thank goodness that dreadful General Ungave has been overthrown,’ Morgan’s mother remarked now, and Fliss had to bite her tongue at the memory of her in-laws practically rebuking her for not wanting Morgan