Sowing Secrets (23 page)

‘Maldwyn assured me that you knew!’ she said, staring at me in some astonishment.

‘Knew?’ I sank down on the nearest chair, my knees weak. ‘Of course I didn’t know! And I’m certainly not happy about it, either!’

‘He definitely gave me to understand that you both knew about and condoned the situation,’ she said doubtfully. ‘But I told him that he should either have refused the contract or arranged to take you with him: when
we
arrive there will be three Mrs Marches on the island, which I consider open to misinterpretation and vulgar speculation.’

That will make two Mrs Marches too many, by my reckoning, but in a strange sort of way Mrs M. seemed to be taking my side.

She got up and hooked her small hard handbag over one arm. ‘That’s all, I think, Frances: just so long as you realise that I’m not approving your marriage to my son by my actions.’

‘I understand,’ I said, though quite honestly I’m not sure I’m entirely following her reasoning. ‘And … thank you.’

‘Give my love to Rosie,’ she added, as though the words had been extracted from her by extreme torture, though the slight softening of her adamantine façade gave her away. ‘Tell her to come and see me soon.’

Outside, her friend seemed to be asleep at the wheel, covered in crumbs, but jerked upright when Mrs M. got in and slammed the door.

I didn’t wait to see them off but went straight back in to call Mal …
whatever
time of the day or night it was over there.

‘But you knew!’ he protested faintly when I finally got him on his mobile. ‘I told you when she landed her job here, and then when she told me about this contract.’

‘No, you didn’t! I’m
certain
you didn’t – and what’s more, you haven’t mentioned her once since you’ve been out there! What am I supposed to make of that?’ I demanded furiously.

‘Haven’t I?’ he said innocently. ‘I’m sure I must have, because it certainly wasn’t a secret I was keeping from you, Fran! And, actually, our paths have hardly crossed since I got out here – much less than they used to at home. It’s not like we’re working at the same place, or move in the same social circles, darling. I don’t know why Mother is in such a state about it, or why you’re so bothered about it, either: Alison and I are just friends now.’

Words failed me – which is just as well, because he had to go at that point. I expect I will have more to say when I’ve had time to think it over.

I went up to Plas Gwyn for tea, and of course poured it all out to Nia and Rhodri, who were suitably indignant on my behalf. I am feeling more and more unsettled the more I think about the whole thing, and I’m very sure he
did
keep it a secret, whatever he says!

But Mrs M. knew … maybe because she has always kept in touch with Alison. It sounds as though Alison has shot herself in the foot this time, though, and that despite my Scarlet Woman past I may yet rise in Mrs M.’s esteem.

Then again, I might not.

We all pigged out on buttered fruity bara brith, which Nia had bought from Teapots. These pleasures will be denied me from Monday: the butter might be OK with the Atkins diet, but not on bread.

After tea we had a walk round to see how everything is coming along. I’d already noticed some changes, like the signs along the drive directing cars to the car park, and a couple of information boards.

The planning permission is being looked on favourably, and hopefully is about to be passed, the electrics and plastering in the café and gift shops are finished, and two out of the three workshops have got tenants ready to move in – a woodworker and a weaver. Everything’s nearly ready in the garden, the sarcophagus and gryphon manhandled back to their original positions, and Aled has been persuaded to trim all the trees into less lewd shapes.

Even a temporary Portaloo block has been put in the car park, screened by a hedge, until more permanent arrangements can be made.

Rhodri and Nia were like a pair of excited schoolchildren, interrupting each other all the time. Clearly they are having fun, and I tried not to feel as if they were at the start of a new and wonderful relationship, while mine was thrashing about in its death throes.

Got back to a long and placatory email from Mal. I have decided to pretend to Rosie that I knew all along about Alison being there and didn’t mind in the least, or she will worry and maybe tell Tom my marriage is on the rocks and I’m up for grabs.

And on the subject of big blond surf dudes, there was another sketch in the post, a self-portrait. He was partly hidden by a large surfboard, but clearly in the rude nude. The caption was ‘For surfing, strip down to the bare essentials’.

From what I remember, he was
definitely
boasting.

Rosie arrived home, her car crammed to the roof with stuff, and although I was desperate to see her again – the first time since the miscarriage – we ended up crying all over each other the moment she stepped through the door.

‘You won’t try and get pregnant again, will you, Mum?’ she implored me tearfully. ‘Promise me you won’t!’

‘I didn’t actually
try
in the first place, darling, it just happened,’ I said evasively, because although mentally I’ve accepted that I’m not going to have another baby, part of me
would
like another little accident to happen …

‘You’re not
promising
,’ my first little accident said, looking at me accusingly with those changeling grey-green eyes. ‘Aren’t
I
enough?’

‘Yes, of course you are!’ I assured her, giving her a big hug. There didn’t seem to be any point in trying to explain that I would still love her just as much even if I did have another baby, since Mal has made his feelings plain.

Fortunately she was distracted at this point. ‘Who is that man in the back garden?’

‘He’s delivering some well-rotted manure – didn’t you notice the Land Rover and trailer in the lane? Gabe Weston was having a load delivered to Plas Gwyn, ready for work to start on the rose garden up there, and he asked him to drop some off for me too. The roses down the trellis between us and the Wevills have taken a bit of a hammering lately – they hacked the tops off.’

‘But he seems to be doing the mulching too,’ she said, looking out of the back window.

‘Apparently Gabe asked him to, and he insisted.’

‘But why? You’re not an invalid, Mum – you said you were totally well again!’

‘I am, darling. It was just a kind thought.’

‘I don’t see why he’s sending you presents, either,’ she said suspiciously.

‘Rosie, it’s just a kind gesture from one gardener to another. We share an interest in roses, and when he came to see mine he stayed to help me prune the Mermaid – he thinks it will recover.’

‘Did you say the Wevills chopped it down? Gran’s right, they
are
mad!’

She seemed satisfied, and went off to unload the car and re-sort her belongings ready for her trip with Bigblondsurfdude, while I took the Man with the Mulch a cup of tea.

It really was kind of Gabe to think of me – or perhaps he was just concerned for my roses.

I made a huge vat of spaghetti carbonara, one of Rosie’s favourites, and a big Pavlova for afterwards, though I had to use frozen raspberries.

While we ate Rosie put me through one of her third-degree interrogations about Mal, asking awkward questions like how could he go off and leave me just after the miscarriage if he really loved me, and whether I still loved him, which I did my best to fend off.

It wasn’t easy, since I’ve asked myself the same things over and over again, and finding out about Alison being over there hasn’t exactly helped, either.

But
of course
I do still love him – when Dr Jekyll is in the ascendancy. Let’s hope Mr Hyde stays out there when he finally comes home, because I’m sure he and Alison would make a wonderful couple.

My assurances can’t have rung very true for, seemingly satisfied that Mal had more or less abandoned me, she embarked on a sales pitch for Bigblondsurfdude. Apparently he talks about me all the time (must be boring for everyone), and was
just
the sort of father she wished she’d had.

‘Except he’s
not
,’ I pointed out firmly.

‘He might be,’ she argued, pouring out more elderberry wine. ‘In fact, he says he’s sure he must be.’

‘Darling, it’s very nice of him to wish you were his daughter, but I’ve told you that it’s extremely unlikely. But if you do want to prove it for certain I think I could afford one of these new paternity test things. Doesn’t it cost a couple of hundred pounds? Well, I’ve been selling loads of cartoons lately, so—’

‘Tom’s already suggested it,’ interrupted Rosie. ‘But it was me who didn’t want to in case … well, in case it
wasn’t
him. He’s such fun – not like Mal, who always treated me like something he had to put up with!’

‘Now, Rosie, Mal is very fond of you, he’s just not the fatherly sort and he doesn’t show his feelings easily. But if you do change your mind and want to do the test, just let me know,’ I offered, not entirely altruistically, because at this stage I really would like to be certain one way or another myself!

‘Why did I have to be born at all?’ Rosie said gloomily, and went upstairs to pack for her surfing weekend, while I cleared away and then brooded over another glass of wine.

This mother business seems to get more difficult as they grow up, not less.

When she came down again she seemed to have cheered up, and offered to make us cocktails using a bottle of absinthe she’d brought with her.

She described it as a sort of Pernod, but it must have been rather stronger because events were a little hazy after the second one. I was definitely
not
at my best when Tom rang the doorbell at some unearthly hour of the morning, fresh as a daisy after an all-night drive up from Cornwall. I opened the door half dead and with my hair in my eyes.

‘Fran!’ he cried, embracing me with enthusiasm, and since I needed both hands to hold my dressing gown shut it wasn’t easy to fend him off.

‘For goodness’ sake, come in!’ I said, as a light snapped on at the Wevills’, sending a shaft of questing illumination into the night. They’d counted him in, and if I had anything to do with it they would count him out again almost immediately.

I left him in the sitting room while I went to wake Rosie up. She looked positively angelic asleep. Did I really want my only child to go off surfing with Tom, who was always verging on hyperactive, slightly crazy and not terribly bright?

‘Why are you standing over me like Bride of Frankenstein, Mum?’ asked Rosie sleepily.

‘Tom’s here.’

She woke up completely, looking as fresh as if she’d slept for hours. ‘It doesn’t seem to be five minutes since I went to sleep! Tell him I’ll be right down.’

‘Tell him yourself, darling – I’m going to put my warm dressing gown on. I’m freezing, and I seem to have lost the belt to this one.’

And what’s more, I didn’t particularly want a tête-à-tête with Tom while half-clothed, though I didn’t mention that.

When I’d watched the tail lights of Tom’s car disappear into the night I went back to bed, but I couldn’t sleep for thinking about great waves crashing on to Rosie –
and
sharks. I’m sure someone said they’d seen a Great White somewhere off our coast recently, and I sincerely hoped it wasn’t anywhere near Wales.

I had to get Gabe’s number from Ma so I could thank him for his gift.

‘We’ve made beds for each other now, which seems fair, doesn’t it?’ he said, his deep, golden-toned voice sounding amused, and I immediately felt a bit guilty about the Flower Fairies. ‘I thought it might give the Mermaid a boost,’ he added.

‘If that doesn’t, nothing will.’ I paused, wondering what quality it was about his voice that sent shivers up and down my spine – and probably that of every other woman who heard him, too. ‘I’ve found a couple more Regency roses, though one is 1819, which is a bit late.’

‘Oh, I think we could go up to about 1820, at a push.’

‘It’s dark purple, which would contrast well against the lighter ones.’

‘Sounds good – what’s it called?’

‘Rose du Roi à Fleurs Pourpres,’ I said, carefully reading it out. ‘And I thought of the Burgundy rose – that’s a really old one, and very pretty.’

‘I know that one. And how about a Spong?’

‘A what?’

‘Spong – small, hardy, pink, reminds me of you. Now, don’t tell me you haven’t come across that one?’

‘Are you making it up?’ I asked suspiciously.

‘No, you look it up and see.’

So I did, and the Spong does exist, though I think I would rather remind him of a rose by any other name, even if it does smell sweet, since Spong is hardly music to the ears.

Tom dropped Rosie off in the middle of Sunday afternoon but didn’t hang about, thank goodness, since he had to get back to the surf school again. I simply don’t know how he does it, shuttling up and down the country teaching in two places (three, if you count his one-day-a-week stint teaching art in a sixth-form college).

Rosie looked glowingly healthy but exhausted, which she said was mostly due to the partying till all hours that surfers appear to go in for.

‘Tom never seemed to stay still – he’s a real party animal,’ she said, but despairingly rather than admiringly, like the mother of an over-energetic toddler.

‘He always was a bit hyperactive and full of boyish high spirits,’ I agreed. ‘Also, although very good-natured, not terribly bright. I don’t ever recall him reading a book when we were going out together.’

‘His boredom threshold
does
seem to be set a bit low,’ she admitted. ‘But he’s a very good surf teacher!’ She got up. ‘I’m going to have a long soak in the bath and then pack up for Granny’s.’

‘You could go very early in the morning instead?’ I suggested.

‘No, I’ll be fine after a bath and some food,’ she said, surprised. ‘I’m not
really
tired. Oh, and Tom’s invited me and Colum to go down and surf in Cornwall next weekend – you don’t mind, do you?’

‘That’s an awfully long way to drive,’ I began anxiously.

‘It’s all right, Mum! Colum can do the driving. He’s got a bigger car than me too.’

I looked at her sadly. I’d been
so
looking forward to seeing her, and she was hardly going to be home at all at this rate!

‘Mum,’ she wheedled, ‘you don’t think you could just stick my dirty clothes in the machine while I’m in the bath, do you? Only there are a couple of things I’ll need to take with me, and everything’s a bit sandy, or salty, or both.’

Muttering darkly I loaded the washer, removed the clean clothes, put them in the dryer, and cooked a full chicken dinner – you know, all the stuff you should make them do themselves, only some strange compunction forces
you
to do instead.

My reward was the big hug she gave me before setting off for Granny’s, and Ma made her phone as soon as she got there to say she’d arrived safely.

OK, this is officially the start of the Atkins diet! Rosie won’t be back until Friday, so I’ve got no excuse to cook anything fattening – and at least on this one you can eat all you want (providing all you want is protein and a handful of leaves, of course).

Out went the fruit: the cupboard now contains more tins of fish than a Norwegian canning factory.

Work should distract me from eating too. The calendar firm who do my rose one are now extremely keen on the hen idea, and of course want it by yesterday, so I am going to visit a rare-hen breeding centre tomorrow to take photographs and do some sketches.

Another email from Mal this morning. Since I found out about Alison, he’s been phoning and emailing me more often, but I still feel unsettled by the idea – and the deception. I am absolutely sure he didn’t mention it to me. And while he still seems keen for me to go out there I suspect his motivation has radically changed from when he first suggested it at the hospital, and now he wants me more to look after his mother and reassure her that we’re still an item.

He’s going to have to reassure
me
of that too.

And why does Gabe Weston’s face have a disconcerting tendency to slip into my mind whenever I think about Mal? Is it just because I’m worried about his move to Fairy Glen and the possibility of him finding out about Rosie, so he’s always at the back of my mind?

Today I received a present from Mal! It was posted in England, and there was a note explaining that his friend Justin had popped in to see him in Grand Cayman and, since he was coming back to the UK for a few days on business, volunteered to send the parcel to me once he got here.

Justin is an old school friend of Mal’s who has made pots of money and jets about the world doing deals and having a good time. There was a point when he seemed to think
I
might be a good time, but I swiftly disillusioned him.

The present was a little hessian sack of coffee beans, which seemed rather disappointing until I tasted it: but my God, once you’ve had the Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee experience, anything else is just burned acorns!

I’m telling you, this is the champagne of coffees, and I’m now redefining my concept of happiness as a new rose catalogue, the rich smell of Blue Mountain coffee and a plate of freshly baked (non-Atkins) macaroons.

I suppose Mal’s idea of perfect happiness is neatness, order and good (i.e., expensive) living. Also sailing, fine wine and stamps. If he ever manages to find that elusive Cayman Blue, his cup of vintage
vino
will runneth over.

He sounds pretty happy now, so he must have found most of those elements out there already. He does still say he misses me, but doesn’t specify in what way. Nor does he say it very often or with any great conviction.

It’s odd how he keeps telling
me
how high the cost of living over there is, and that most foodstuffs are flown in from America, but in the next breath mentions some fancy French-sounding restaurant he’s been to the night before. It doesn’t sound like he is exactly stinting himself, does it?

Today being Friday I phoned Ma up to tell her to behave herself in Amsterdam, but fat chance.

Rosie had already left for the vet’s surgery, but Ma said she was setting off home at four, so would be back in the early evening.

I expect it will be another fast turnaround of washing, ironing and repacking before she vanishes off with the unknown Colum to Cornwall
.
And of course I am happy that she is off enjoying herself and having all these lovely opportunities, but by the time she returns from Cornwall it will practically be the start of term again.

I’ll just have to get used to this: after all, I want my daughter to have a life, don’t I? It would be much more worrying if she never did anything and was still living at home with her mum at thirty-six.