Part 18 (1/2)

”You mean, he has nothing to give you.”

”And he needs nothing from me. He's self-sufficient. He has his own life. He has Penfolda.”

”Have you discussed this with him?”

”Oh, Alice . . .”

”You obviously haven't. So how can you be so certain?”

”Because all those years ago, he said he'd phone me. He said that he wanted me to come out to Penfolda for tea or something, to meet his mother again. And I was going to borrow your car and drive myself out here. But you see, he never telephoned. I waited, but he never telephoned. And before there was time to find out why, or do anything about it, I'd been whisked back to London by my mother.”

Alice said, ”And how do you know he never telephoned?” She was beginning to sound impatient.

”Because he never did.”

”Perhaps your mother took the call.”

”I asked her. And she said there'd never been any telephone call.”

”But, Virginia, she was perfectly capable of taking a call and never telling you about it. Specially if she didn't like the young man. Surely you realized that.”

Her voice was brisk and practical. Virginia stared, scarcely able to believe her ears. That Alice should say such things about Rowena Parsons-Alice of all people, her mother's oldest friend. Alice, coming out with a dark truth that Virginia had never had the courage to find out for herself. She remembered her mother's face, smiling across the railway carriage, the laughing protest. ”Darling! What an accusation. Of course not. You surely didn't think . . ”

And Virginia had believed her. She said at last, helplessly, ”I thought she was telling me the truth. I didn't think she was capable of lying.”

”Let's say she was a determined person. And you were her only child. She always had great ambitions for you.”

”You knew this. You knew this about her and yet she was still your friend.”

”Friends aren't people you particularly like for any special reason. You just like people because they're your friends.”

”But if she was lying, then Eustace must have thought that I didn't want to see him again. All these years he's been thinking I simply let him down.”

”But he wrote you a letter,” said Alice.

”A letter?”

”Oh, Virginia, don't be so dense. That letter that came for you. The day before you went back to London.” Virginia continued to stare blankly. ”I know there was a letter. It came by the afternoon post, and it was on the table in the hall and I thought 'How nice' because you didn't get many letters. And then I went off to do something or other and when I came back the letter had gone. I presumed you'd taken it.”

A letter. Virginia saw the letter. Imagined the envelope as white, the writing very black, addressed to her. Miss Virginia Parsons. Lying unattended and vulnerable upon that round table that still stood in the centre of the hall at Wheal House. She saw her mother come out of the drawing-room, perhaps on her way upstairs, pause to inspect the afternoon's mail. She was wearing the raspberry-red suit with the white silk s.h.i.+rt, and when she put out her hand to pick up the letter, her nails were painted the same raspberry-red, and her heavy gold charm bracelet made a jingling sound, like bells.

She saw her frown at the writing, the black masculine writing, inspect the postmark, hesitate for perhaps a second, and then slip the envelope into the pocket of her jacket and carry on with what she was doing, unperturbed, as though nothing had happened.

She said, ”Alice, I never got that letter.”

”But it was there!”

”Don't you see? Mother must have taken it. Destroyed it. She would, you know. She would say, It's all for Virginia's sake. For Virginia's own good.' ”

Illusions were gone for ever, the veil torn away. She could look back with a cool, objective regard and see her mother the way she had really been, not merely sn.o.bbish and determined, but devious too. In some odd way, this was a relief. It had taken some effort, all these years, to sustain the legend of an irreproachable parent, even though Virginia had been deceiving n.o.body but herself. Now, remembered, she seemed much more human.

Alice was looking upset, as though already regretting any mention of the letter.

”Perhaps it wasn't from Eustace.”

”It was.”

”How do you know?”

”Because if it had been from anyone else, then she would have given it back to me, with some excuse or other about opening it by mistake.”

”But we don't know what was in the letter.”

Virginia got off the table. ”No. But I'm going to find out. Now. Will you stay here till the children wake up? Will you tell them I shan't be long?”

”But where are you going?”

”To see Eustace, of course,” said Virginia, from the door.

”But you haven't drunk your coffee. I made you coffee and you haven't even drunk it. And what are you going to say to him? And how are you going to explain?”

But Virginia had already gone. Alice was speaking to an empty room, an open, swinging door. With an exclamation of exasperation, she put down her coffee cup and went to the door as though to call Virginia back, but Virginia was already out of earshot, running like a child through the tall summer gra.s.s, across the fields in the direction of Penfolda.

She took the field path because it would have taken too long to get into the car and turn it and drive back along the main road. And time was too precious to be wasted. They had already lost ten years, and there was not another moment to spare.

She was running, through a joyous morning of honey-scents and white daisies and tall gra.s.s that whipped at her bare legs. The sea was a dark, purplish blue, striped with ribbons of turquoise, and the horizon was blurred in a haze that promised great heat. She was running, long-legged, taking the steps of the stiles two at a time, and the ditches of the stubble fields brimmed with red poppies and the air was filled with the petals of yellow gorse flowers, blown to confusion, like confetti, by the sea-wind.

She came across the last field, and Penfolda lay ahead of her, the house and the long barns, and the little garden, wall-enclosed from the wind. She went over the last stile that led into the vegetable garden, and down the path and through the gate, and she saw that the cat and her half-Siamese kittens lay in the sun on the doorstep, and the front door stood open and she went indoors and called Eustace, and the house was dark after the brightness of the day outside. ”Who's that?”

It was Mrs. Thomas, carrying a duster, peering over the banister.

”It's me. Virginia. Virginia Keile. I'm looking for Eustace.”

”He's just coming in from milking ...”

”Oh, thank you.” Without bothering to wait and explain, she went back out of doors, and started across the lawn, making for the cattle court and the milking parlour. But at that moment he appeared, coming through the gate that opened into the far side of the garden. He was in s.h.i.+rt sleeves, ap.r.o.ned, wearing rubber boots and carrying a polished aluminum pail of milk. Virginia stopped dead. He closed the latch of the gate behind him and looked up and saw her.

She had meant to be very sensible. To say, calmly and quietly, ”I want to ask you about the letter you wrote me.” But it didn't happen like that at all. For everything was said in that long moment, while they stood and looked at each other, and then Eustace set down his bucket and started towards her, and she ran down the slope of the gra.s.s and into his arms, and she was laughing, her face pressed into the front of his s.h.i.+rt, and he was saying, ”It's all right. It's all right,” just as though she were crying, not laughing. And Virginia said, ”I love you,” and then she burst into tears.