Part 17 (2/2)
”About me?”
”About Eustace Philips!”
Virginia said, ”I don't understand.”
”Mrs. Jilkes told me. I was scarcely in through the front door when I was hearing all about it. She said that Eustace had telephoned her while I was away to ask if anybody was getting Bosithick ready for you and the children. And she said I was in London, and he said not to bother, he'd see to it”
”Yes, that's right . . . and he did too . . .”
”But Virginia . . . You talked about Eustace, but you never told me that you'd met him again.”
”Didn't I?” Virginia frowned. ”No, I didn't, did I?”
”But when did you meet him?”
”That day I came out to see the cottage. Do you remember? I said I wouldn't be back for lunch. And I went to the pub in Lanyon to buy cigarettes and I met him there.”
”But why didn't you say anything about it? Was there any particular reason that you didn't want me to know?”
”No.” She tried to remember. ”But I suppose I just didn't want to talk about him.” She smiled. ”It wasn't as though it had been such a friendly reunion. In fact, we had the most terrible row ...”
”But did you mean to meet him again?”
”No. It just happened.”
”And he remembered you? After all this time? But he'd only ever seen you that once at the barbecue.”
”No,” said Virginia. ”I did see him again.”
”When?”
”About a week after the barbecue. I met him in Porthkerris. We spent the afternoon together and he drove me back to Wheal House. You didn't see him because you were out that day. But my mother was there. She knew about it.”
”But why was it all kept such a secret?”
”It wasn't a secret, Alice. It was just that my mother didn't like Eustace. I must say, he didn't make much of an effort to impress her, and he was rude and the Land-Rover was covered with bits of straw and mud and manure . . . not my mother's cup of tea at all. She treated the whole incident as though it were a sort of joke, but I knew that he had made her angry, and that she didn't like him.”
”But you could have talked to me about him. After all, it was I who introduced you to Eustace.”
”I tried, but every time I started, my mother somehow broke into the conversation or changed the subject or interrupted in some way. And . . . you mustn't forget this, Alice . . . you were her friend, not mine. I was just the little girl, out of the nursery. I never imagined for a moment that you'd take my side against hers.”
”Was it a question of taking sides?”
”It would have been. You know what a sn.o.b she was.”
”Oh, yes, of course, but it was harmless.”
”No, Alice, it wasn't harmless. It was terribly dangerous. It affected everything she did. It deformed her.”
”Virginia!” Alice was shocked.
”That's why we suddenly went back to London. You see, she knew, she guessed right away, that I was in love with Eustace.”
The kettle boiled. Alice lifted it, and filled the coffee jug, and the kitchen was suffused with a delicious fresh smell. Alice drew a spoon gently across the surface of the coffee.
”And were you?” she asked at last. ”In love with Eustace?”
”Of course I was. Wouldn't you have been at seventeen?”
”But you married Anthony Keile.”
”Yes.”
”Did you love him?”
”I ... I married him.”
”Were you happy?”
”I was lonely ...”
”But, Virginia, I always thought ... I mean, your mother always said ... I thought you were so happy,” Alice finished, hopeless with confusion.
”No. But it wasn't all Anthony's fault. It was my fault, too.”
”Did Lady Keile know this?”
”No.” Nor did she know the circ.u.mstances of Anthony's death. Nor did she know about Liz. Nor was she ever going to. ”Why should she know? She used to come and stay with us, but never for more than a week at a time. It wasn't difficult to foster the illusion of an idyllically happy marriage. It was the least we could do for her . . .”
”I'm surprised Nanny never said anything.”
”Nanny never saw anything she didn't want to see. And to her, Anthony was perfection.”
”It can't have been easy.”
”No. but like I said, it wasn't all Anthony's fault.”
”And Eustace?”
”Alice, I was seventeen; a little girl, waiting for someone to come and buy her an ice-cream.”
”But not now ...” said Alice.
”No. Now I'm twenty-seven and the mother of two children. And I'm not waiting for ice-creams any longer.”
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