Part of the Furniture (16 page)

Juno said, ‘I haven’t told her, she doesn’t know. I was supposed to join her in Canada and I don’t want to, and now it’s quite awful. It’s all so difficult!’ Her voice rose. ‘Oh God!’ she exclaimed, ‘I don’t know why I am telling you all this. I am worried stiff!’

Priscilla said, ‘No doubt your mother is, too.’

Juno, almost shouting, cried, ‘Of
course
!’ She was on the verge of tears. ‘I don’t know what or how to tell her.’

Priscilla said, ‘My dear girl, don’t tell me you are incapable of concocting a lie?’

Shocked, Juno said, ‘What?’

Priscilla said, ‘Send her a cable. Here is the Post Office, come along, I will help you. There is an art in this sort of thing. One has to remember later what one said.’

Juno said, ‘Gosh.’

Riding back to Copplestone, she marvelled at Priscilla’s competence, for it was Priscilla who composed the message which apprised her mother of her whereabouts and occupation, and stated in essence that the situation had come about via an introduction from her aunt. Only twice did Priscilla ask a question, first, for her mother’s address and secondly, murmuring, how had it come about that Evelyn knew Violet? And before Juno could voice a yea or nay, said, ‘Not that it matters, for Evelyn knew everybody, didn’t he?’

And Juno had humbly agreed to yet another of the many half-truths assumed since her arrival.

So that night when she wrote, as Priscilla said she must, a long letter to her mother; she described the house, the farm, the countryside, her work with the cows, pigs, horses, chickens and geese. She told her mother that she could make butter, was helping to produce food, would further the outcome of the war. She wrote that she was happy, that, she hoped her mother would understand. She wondered whether there was any possibility of her sending back her clothes, but please not to worry as Ann was being so incredibly kind. She wrote that she liked working for Mr Copplestone, who let her ride the pony and his horse, that a friend of Aunt Violet’s who had been at school with her lived not far away, and please not to worry as she was busy and well. She was fortunate to have found such a useful job. Then she sent her love and best wishes to Mr Sonntag.

When she had signed the letter and sealed it in its envelope, she wondered whether, when she mentioned Ann in the letter, it was by mistake or on purpose that she had not made it clear that Ann was the housekeeper and not, as her mother would infer, Robert’s wife? For a brief moment she eyed the closed envelope before deciding that her mother would be less happy if she knew that Robert was a widower who named his farm animals after a string of mistresses. The letter must go to the post as it was.

It would be all right, Juno told herself, riding back to Copplestone. Mrs Villiers had been right to concoct the half-truth which was cabling its way to Canada; her mother could not expect intimacy, must be used to silence and evasion. Riding up into the hills, Juno considered her parent with dispassion; they had never been close, had lived without demonstrations of affection. She had no recollection of being petted. There had been no hand-holding, for instance, unless it was necessary and kisses had been sparse. She would never have been able to speak with her mother as she had a few minutes before with Mrs Villiers who, loquacious and loose-tongued, had elicited in a few brief minutes a précis of her life.

If her mother had resembled Mrs Villiers, would she herself have taken a more sympathetic interest in her parent? Would she have discussed Mr Sonntag? Would her mother have listened? Would she have asked whether she, Juno, was happy to go to Canada, instead of taking it for granted? Almost certainly not, unless she had miraculously become another person. Riding up the hill, Juno laughed out loud and the pony twitched her ears back and forth.

With a mother of Mrs Villiers’s calibre there would have been consultation and argument, laughter and probably tears, never those dreary meals and long evenings with hardly a word spoken, each wrapped in her own thoughts. And yet, Juno thought, I love her as far as she allows. I know that until she met her Mr Sonntag she was dutiful, not happy. Some of this had come bubbling out while speaking with Mrs Villiers, who assumed without being told that her mother had married the wrong man and did not love her father. She had, though, been fiercely loyal, Juno remembered, standing up for him when he was criticized, even though she had found his political opinions irritating and embarrassing long after his death.

What her mother had wanted was to be like her neighbours, Mrs Murray and Mrs Johnson. Thinking of this, Juno snorted with laughter; her mother, Juno knew, and this she had not let on to Mrs Villiers, had never wanted to have a child, but if she had to have one would have wanted a son. Once, in a moment of unguarded irritation, she had told Juno this and Juno had not felt hurt but sympathetic, for it was clear her mother was an unhappy person who hated being poor, who would never be like Mrs Johnson or Mrs Murray, neither of whom had married the wrong man and had the wrong child.

‘I hope and pray,’ Juno said out loud, ‘that she will be happy with her Mr Sonntag. Surely I am right to spare her embarrassment. After all,’ she consoled herself, ‘my mother did not confide in me, so why should I risk confiding in her? She has escaped, but I wish she had not taken all my clothes with her.’

R
OBERT WATCHED JUNO JOGGING
ahead on the pony and was glad he had asked her to come on his pre-breakfast tour. Normally he relished his solitude, viewing his land and stock, planning the day’s work. But it was nice, he thought, to have company for once, all the more so since Juno did not chatter; when spoken to, she answered intelligently but most of the time was agreeably mute.

The landgirl who had stayed so briefly and got on so badly with Bert and Ann had been a chatterer and a know-all, airing her bits of agricultural lore, bending the ear of anyone who would listen. No wonder the man had taken against her.

It was a relief, he thought, watching Juno’s back, that since her brief spat with Bert—what had that really been about?—she was as welcome in the farmyard and dairy as she was in the house. This morning his ride was as pleasurable as it had been when Evelyn was home to keep him company, as he had done regularly as a child. Juno rode well, with a straight back and long stirrups. Had she too ridden with her father, or had the man died too soon to teach her? Information Juno transmitted was remarkably sparse. The landgirl had barely lasted a week, but by halfway through she had apprised all who would listen of her every intimate family detail with elaboration and repetition. Her voice, too, had been an irritant, high and piercing. Juno’s was low.

‘Who taught you to ride?’ Robert addressed Juno’s back.

‘A neighbour’s groom.’

‘Oh?’

‘I helped exercise the horses.’

‘Our father’s say we may have horses and hunt, provided they are properly exercised and cared for in term-time. We have thought it out. Jennings shall teach you, then you can ride while we are at school,’ Francis had said.

‘And help in the stables. It’s a known fact,’ Jonty had added, ‘that little girls love hanging around stables and are horse-mad.’ And so it had been that she had learnt to ride, groom, muck out and fill hay-bags. ‘It did not last long,’ she said.

‘What didn’t?’

‘The riding.’

‘Why not?’

‘They sold their horses when they were old enough to drive a car.’

‘They?’

‘Erm—the—er—neighbours. Their family owned the farm where I learned to milk.’

She did not want to relive the disappointment, the sight of the empty stable when the horses were sold in favour of an MG. Jennings had not been happy, either.

‘Which fields do you use for hay?’ she asked.

Robert reined in his horse. ‘Those two on this side of the brook, and the one across there where the cows are grazing. It’s very old pasture,’ Robert told Juno, since she seemed interested. ‘It’s never been ploughed; it’s full of wild flowers and herbs. The cattle love it.’

So she did not want to talk about learning to ride, but as he enjoyed talking about the land he loved he went on to tell her of the three kinds of orchid which grew in the meadows, and of how he dated the hedges by their variety of trees and shrubs. He enjoyed her reticence but to test her, a slight tease, he asked, ‘Did the horses you learned to ride have names?’ She should know that he noticed she had deflected his attention.

Juno said, ‘I expect so, I don’t remember,’ which was untrue, for Jonty had named the horses Auden and Isherwood after a pair of writers he and Francis were interested in at the time and there had been an innuendo she had not understood. ‘It was a long time ago.’ Aware of sounding rude, she said, ‘When I met Mrs Villiers she told me you named all your animals after friends. Is that true?’

Robert laughed, ‘Yes. Girls.’

‘Is Jessie named after someone special?’

‘Not Jessie; there has been a long line of Jessies going back to my childhood, all canine. Come on, shall we ride to the top through the wood?’ Robert kicked his horse into a canter and Juno followed. At the top, Robert reined in to gaze at the familiar view, west towards the Lizard and Land’s End and east towards Plymouth. ‘All quiet today,’ he said, ‘no bombers. Look, quick, there’s a peregrine! See, it’s after a pigeon. My God, those birds are wonderful. Look, Juno, see it jink. Look, do you see it?

She must share his delight, but Juno was sliding off the pony, handing him the reins, doubling over to be sick.

Robert got off his horse and watched Juno heave. Then she wiped her pale face with her handkerchief, gulped for breath and said, ‘Sorry about that, I must have picked up some bug which is making me queasy. I felt sick yesterday morning when I was milking; it was the smell of warm milk.’

Robert asked, ‘And the morning before?’

Juno said, ‘Come to think of it, yes, how funny.’ Her colour was returning. ‘Where’s the peregrine? I don’t believe I’ve ever seen one.’

Robert said, ‘It’s gone now. I don’t think you have a bug.’

Juno said, ‘No. I don’t suppose so, it’s nothing.’ She reached to take the pony’s reins.

Robert said, ‘Not nothing, it’s a baby.’

Juno said, ‘What?’ Her hand was still reaching for the reins.

‘Juno, you are pregnant.’ He let her take the reins.

‘I am what?’ She stared at him.

‘Going to have a baby.’

‘Going to have a baby?’ She jerked the pony’s head up; it was munching grass.

‘Yes, Juno.’

‘But I don’t like babies. I know nothing about babies. What on earth makes you think I am—what did you say?’

‘Pregnant.’ He watched her pull grass from the pony’s mouth, it was frothy and staining the bit. ‘You have morning sickness,’ he said.

‘Some bug called morning sickness?’

‘No. A baby. A child.’

Juno said, ‘How on earth would you know?’

‘My wife and I had a baby.’

‘Oh yes, of course, Evelyn, but that was ages ago.’

‘The symptoms remain the same.’

‘She threw up?’

‘Yes. It doesn’t last long, a few weeks—’

‘But I’m not—’

Robert said, ‘It’s all right, don’t worry. I will—’

‘But how can I? I don’t know anything. I don’t like—’

Robert said, ‘Hasn’t your mother told you anything?’ The pony was munching grass again.

‘My mother,’ Juno said, ‘never even told me about the curse. She didn’t even—’

They had been on a picnic. There had been other people. Jonty’s and Francis’s friends, another boy, several girls. She had said, ‘I have cut myself. Anyone got a plaster?’ Mrs Murray, a fussy mother, often put plasters in the picnic basket, someone usually managed to get a cut or a scratch. ‘Give us the box of plasters,’ she had said.

‘Where’s the cut?’ one of them said. ‘Let’s have a dekko.’

Then they had laughed, a great yell of laughter. ‘Our Juno’s on heat,’ they had cried for all to hear. ‘Here’s a turn-up for the book, you’re on heat, luvvy, no plaster can help that,’ and between giggles they had given her a rundown on the facts of life, information which when checked turned out to be garbled. Her mother when she got home had been annoyed, ‘I wasn’t expecting it for you for another couple of years.’

Juno said, ‘She should not be eating this stuff,’ and pulled the pony’s head up. ‘Oh, Robert!’

Robert said, ‘Having a baby can be fun.’

And Juno said, ‘Who for?’ She glanced into his friendly eyes, then looked away.

Robert murmured, ‘There hasn’t been a baby at Copplestone for forty years,’ but Juno was staring at the sea and did not hear him. She had turned away from him and the horses. ‘It’s all right, you can’t conceive the first time,’ one of them had said. Had she made some feeble protest? Then the other had said, ‘I believe that’s an old wives’ tale.’ Give him credit. They believed what happened to suit, and she had gone along with it, for her mother, when tackled, had backed away from discovering life for her daughter. She was embarrassed by bodily functions. Goodness! What was her mother up to now? Was it possible that with Jack Sonntag she was indulging, if that was the correct term, in what the dictionary called copulation? An activity which, according to the same dictionary, was similar to if not the same as fornication, changing its name with marriage as did the bride. The sea was very blue out there, the seagulls white. Millicent was cropping grass again and Robert, standing beside her, said nothing. My goodness, had he not said enough?

Juno said, ‘Perhaps you could tell me a bit more. Tell me, for instance, what happened to your wife, Emma.’

‘Ah.’

‘I am ignorant,’ Juno thought she had better not say desperate.

Robert said, ‘Let’s sit down, it’s warm out of the wind. Sit with your back to that rock. I will tether the horses.’

Juno sat, watched him tie the horses, come back and sit beside her. He leant back against the rock and said, ‘How much do you know? How much has your mother told you?’

‘Precious little. As I said, she never even told me about the curse and it took me ages to find out that all women have it and what it’s for.’

Robert said, ‘That’s unbelievable.’